


Food Chain

by lingering_nomad



Category: Venom (Movie 2018)
Genre: Canon Compliant Cannibalism, Competent Reporter Eddie, Dom/sub Undertones, Eddie Brock versus Catholic Guilt, Fluff and Smut, Goo Boyfriend is a Total Nerd, Gratuitous References to Human Physiology, Other, Pseudoscience
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-14
Updated: 2019-01-05
Packaged: 2019-08-23 14:12:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 25,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16620548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lingering_nomad/pseuds/lingering_nomad
Summary: With Carlton Drake’s specter gone, Eddie’s life is finally getting back on track. He’s landed a good job, his ex-fiance is speaking to him again and Chad across the hall has been blessedly quiet.Sure, the man-eating alien sharing his organs wants to take their relationship to the next level and he could do without the police investigation into their latest meal, but Eddie's gotten pretty good at rolling with the punches.Excerpt:“You misunderstand,” his symbiote says. “Even with perfect symbiosis, the odds of us defeating a superior at Riot’s level were nonexistent. Zero, Eddie. If you’d made us waste energy overriding you, we wouldn’t have, but you let us stay, you helped us learn. When we were weak, you let us heal. No other being would have done that for us. We don’t want to hurt you, not ever, but…” Those huge hands stroke up his sides and Eddie arches impossibly closer, “giving you what you want? What no human has, just by taking control?”The symbiote’s face doesn’t change, but Eddie can feel it grinning, low in his gut. “We like that, Eddie. We like it a lot.”





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Edited the summary, since the old one wasn't really fitting the story. Talk to me on [twitter](http://twitter.com/lingering_nomad).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which symbiotes don’t sleep and Eddie is left hanging.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Symbiote's POV. Please see end-note for chapter warnings.

Their heart contracts, expands.

Blood pulses, coursing through and around the symbiote in the same way it’s been doing for the last five hours: a small eternity with only the wet drag of plasma and the throbbing of organs for amusement.

Eddie, by his own description, is a “light sleeper" and even something as passive as watching TV might rouse the body they share, making it weaker, more susceptible to disease, slower to heal. The symbiote has grown used to these daily bouts of stasis, understands the necessity of it better now than it did at the onset, but the boredom isn’t getting easier to deal with.

Tonight is worse. And better. Their bloodstream is flooded with a wash of slowly digesting nutrients, the endorphins that exploded from Eddie when they embarked on their wonderful meal, and the symbiote’s own euphoria. The combination is like an electric current coursing along its molecules. Every instinct is nagging at it to put this energy to use, to press its advantage, expand its territory and track new prey, but that doesn’t align with the needs of its host and so it drifts, waiting.

Eddie uncovered the trafficking cartel by connecting bits of seemingly meaningless information from the stream of emails and documents on his laptop. His best guess is that Drake wanted a backup source of test subjects in case the lab ran out of “volunteers” and while the symbiote isn’t too concerned with such details, it couldn’t fault his logic. The cartel’s leadership skipped town when Drake went up in flames, but the house Eddie found – a swanky estate tucked in the mountains off Interstate 580 – was occupied by a group of mercenaries and the “suppliers” they were meant to protect.

Together, they stalked, they pounced, they fed. Not a quick, reactive chomp in the heat of a fight like before. This time, with surprise on their side, they picked off their targets one by one, dragging them into the shadows where they could savor.

It was as exhilarating as it was vital.

Defying a superior nearly killed the symbiote and recovery took a lot from its host. Barely strong enough to be Venom again, this was their chance to replenish and they used it, gorging well past the point of satiation, simply because they could.

When they returned to the bike, the symbiote withdrew, eager to help break down the glut of brains, and fat, and marrow in their overfilled belly. No sooner had it settled, then it was forced to retake control and constrict their esophagus, or Eddie would have wretched their hard-won feast all over the roadside.

He’s been eating the meat of various species since childhood – the symbiote has seen the memories, even endured “a burger” first-hand, though when it asked, Eddie snapped about “beef” and “chicken” and a need to shrivel the flesh over heat until it tasted like ash. The distinction was hardly apparent, but Eddie was sweating, their entire digestive tract cramping with a sickness that wasn’t physical. It seemed best to stay quiet, to focus on keeping their food inside their stomach and making sure their wheels stayed on the tar.

They have got to hunt, though.

There is no way around it.

Chocolate and raw fish and kale might tide them over for a few weeks, max. Only because those foods help Eddie make more of the proteins and lipids the symbiote needs to maintain their connection, allowing it to live off its host without depleting him too quickly. It’s a delicate balance, hard to maintain. Eventually, inevitably, they need to feed from an outside source, or one of them will suffer.

Back in the apartment, it tried to explain this; Eddie said that it was fine, that he got it, but the bitter, sickly feeling didn’t go away.

The symbiote is still learning what it can fix and what’s best left to Eddie’s devices. Hunting is the axis their mutualism revolves around, which is very much a “we thing _,”_ but the biases fueling Eddie’s unease are squarely his own.

All it knows for sure, is that it doesn’t like it when its host is upset. It wants to soothe, to help, but it has no idea how, aside from letting him sleep it off undisturbed.

Feeling restless, the symbiote pushes upward, skirting kidneys and disks of bone until it leaks through Eddie’s skin. It emerges on his back, in the dip where his spine curves inward. His limbs are sprawled at awkward angles, the sheets kicked to the floor. The rhythmic susurrus of his breathing is muffled under a pillow, his shoulders rising and falling with the respiration of air.

Without the filter of lungs, said air tingles, but it doesn’t burn like it used to. This planet’s atmosphere remains acrid and unpleasantly volatile to the symbiote’s exposed receptors, but since finding Eddie, its DNA has reconfigured, reducing what would once have been fatal to a minor discomfort.

Slowly, as unobtrusively as it knows how, it creeps higher. It settles on a shoulder, extending tendrils of itself across Eddie’s throat, along his jaw, up to his temple.

The arrangement of holes and protrusions that make up human features are uniquely strange, if oddly intriguing – _this_ human’s, anyway. As for the rest, their appeal begins and ends with the hot spurt of blood, the satisfying tear of muscle and sinew as Venom’s teeth scrape meat from skull, but with Eddie…

Everything is different with Eddie.

Until that first release in the Life Foundation Lab, the symbiote’s experience with hosts was limited to deep space vermin that flourished on the rock where it was spawned. Dull, mindless things, barely sentient enough to register their own demise when their usefulness expired.

It was easy to believe the rhetoric, then: that a host is a conveyance, a source of information and ultimately, sustenance. Something to utilize and discard. They weren’t supposed to become… attached.

 _Addicted_.

The thought squirms, perverse and accusing. There is no one around who would criticize, but until very recently, all it knew was the collective’s zero-sum consciousness and, in some ways, allegiance is proving easier to slough off than conditioning.

The symbiote doesn’t regret its decision to stay. Life among its own was a continuous pendulum swing between tedium and jeopardy; an endless cycle of staving off its own hunger and dodging assimilation by superiors. On this world, inside a body that can process a million sensations, shared with a mind on par with its own, everything is so new, so bright, so spectacularly vivid.

Granted, it was terrifying, at first.

Back in the lab, each new host’s thoughts and feelings came rushing in, drowning out all but the most basic instinct to merge and feed, to take what it could before the host’s immune system tipped the balance between danger and safety, forcing it to flee back into the toxically oxygenated air. With each transition it expected to die, so when the last of its Life Foundation hosts, “Maria,” recognized Eddie through the glass of their cell – an outsider, a way out – it seized her flicker of hope and made it its own.

Once the glass lay shattered and it had curled itself around the base of Eddie’s brain, it felt his fear, just like the others,’ but there was something underneath, angry and coiled, that resonated down to the symbiote’s core.

Maybe that’s why Eddie’s antibodies never rallied against it; maybe it’s because it matched his resentment of his place in the world, synched with a being as desperate and vengeful as himself, and that’s why their bond took.

The symbiote doesn’t know and, at first, it was too overwhelmed with rage over everything humans had subjected it to, to care.

It figured out that members of this species identify themselves with sounds linked to symbols, and when the time came to reveal itself, it followed suite: _Venom._ The reverberation in the earthling language, coupled with visions of permeating death, was plucked from Eddie’s mind at random. And, if the host’s recoiling associations with the word coaxed him into quicker submission, all the better.

It was never meant to... fit. But, at some point, in-between threatening to devour Eddie’s organs and braving fire to keep him safe, _Venom_ became _them_. Separate, yet singular.

Oblivious to his occupant’s ruminations, Eddie shifts. Synapses spark and the cadence of his sleep changes as he begins to dream.

Glad for any scrap of entertainment, the symbiote reaches inward, winding along nerves and seeping between folds of gray matter until it can feel the hum of Eddie’s subconscious. Images unfurl. In Eddie’s mind, they are back on the hunt. Their muscles twitch with the memory of prowling through a hallway; blunt, human teeth clench in imitation of something much sharper, ears ringing with abrupt silence as a spasming throat collapses between their jaws.

A shudder ripples down their shared nerves. A vague sense of horror-elation pulses low in their torso, potent and inviting.

The symbiote perks, surprised. The urge isn’t new, but after Eddie’s reaction in the aftermath of their hunt, this is the last thing it expected to sense.

It has pieced together a basic grasp of the human reproductive process, knows that this is linked somehow. Not to procreate, but to… feel.

It’s fascinating and bizarre. Sensation for sensation’s sake is a rare, furtive decadence among its kind, but with humans, even the most mundane activity can be a sensory indulgence. Eddie has shared much of what he likes: soft sweaters, songs on the computer, the scent of roses from a cart in front of the building where they go for his job. But not this.

Spawning offspring aside, sex – “fucking,” “making love” – all referring to the same spectrum of activities as far the symbiote can tell, seem to double as form of inter-human symbiosis. And yet, it has also seen memories of Eddie’s own fingers curled around his penis, and a few, steeped in a thrilling sort of shame, where the touching happens on the inside. It’s a weird type of hunger, a frantic yearning for something that won’t kill him if he doesn’t get it and won’t sustain him if he does, but Eddie’s flustered panic when it rears while he’s awake has kept the symbiote’s curiosity at bay.

Carefully, experimentally, it moves the exposed part of itself along the contours of Eddie’s face, lapping at the curve of his lips, spilling down an arm and retracting again, just to enjoy the sensory feedback that spark along their cells.

Beneath and around it, Eddie shivers. A warm exhale flutters from his mouth.

Eddie wants touch, craves it, but he doesn’t think he deserves it; believes he needs to earn it somehow and that, the symbiote can relate to. Where it comes from, access to hosts is how the strong become stronger and the weak remain trapped in the ranks of fodder-on-standby. That is why four were sent to Earth and not one: to scout, yes, though mostly as provision, to serve as food for the superior who called itself Riot if earthlings proved inedible.

But they are Venom now.

They survived when others didn’t. Among its race, that is victory and the reward for victory is satisfaction. They fed tonight, because they were strong enough to take down prey. The symbiote is sated; Eddie should be too.

It knows it has to ask, get permission to slide around the places that humans hide from each other, where blood pools and nerve endings cluster close to the skin. There’s a ritual to it, rules and conventions that it doesn’t fully grasp, but it’s learning.

In the dream, they’re gnashing through a femur, tongue probing into the bone.

The symbiote remembers how delicious it was, warm and juicy and fresh enough to taste alive. It wants to share this pleasure, like Eddie shares his. And so, it lets its contentment flow outward, dripping red and dark and sweet into the grooves of Eddie’s brain. It takes effort to commune with a human like this, like it would with another like itself, but tonight, cells swollen with the bounty of their meal, it has the energy to spare.

Eddie shifts again. He mumbles, turns his head. Legs tense, pelvis tilts and then—

Something like a shock flashes through them. Their heart spasms. Blood throbs in their groin. The sensation lurches, through the symbiote and back into Eddie. Intense, incredible.

Eddie’s hips grind down and another wave of stimulation tremors through them. Hormones surge. Endorphins pour into their bloodstream.

It feels… It feels…

Eddie makes a sound, raw and plaintive in the back of his throat.

Their whole body tightens. Their heart trips over its rhythm – like it does when Eddie’s afraid. His eyes roll beneath the lids and the symbiote freezes, suddenly unsure. Their limbs are trembling with a sensation very close to pain. Eddie wants, strains toward it, but the symbiote doesn’t let him reach.

It has hurt Eddie before, in its hunger, in its ignorance. It made a promise: never again.

It has memories from the hosts in the lab, even a few from Eddie himself, that say humans will chase pleasures that can kill them. This feels good – so, so good – but also like something Eddie should be aware of, present and awake to explain.

The dream has receded. Eddie writhes, his breaths coming quick and harsh against the mattress.

Their nerves are humming, practically crackling with feedback. Redirecting is difficult, but the symbiote calls on shades of blue and the sound of rain and slowly, Eddie stills.

Half-light flickers through the blinds. The temperature dips as the night dies away and Eddie shivers, the fine hairs on his body rising. The symbiote contracts and heaves, spreading up and out to cover its host in itself, and waits for the day to begin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The symbiote crawls over Eddie while he's asleep and technically unable to consent. Arousal happens, but the symbiote doesn't take advantage.


	2. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Eddie Brock is a Human Disaster™, but at least he has some help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eddie's POV.

_Eddie._

He groans, rolls over. He reaches blindly for the bedding, then settles for curling tighter around his pillow when he comes up empty.

_Eddie._

The voice doesn’t increase in volume, exactly. Just shudders through him a little harder, like seismic waves progressing up the Richter Scale.

“What?” he whines.

 _Your phone, Eddie._ A pause. _We_ _remember what happened last time._

So does Eddie: sleeping through his alarm, the sharp spike of adrenaline when he woke up and saw how late he was running; a sleeve of black bursting down his arm, the crunch of glass and plastic crumpling in their grip...

The symbiote is getting better at parsing out when to act on Eddie’s panic and when to let it slide. A lot of its responses are reflexive, though – kind of like a human’s – so accidents happen. Eddie has a steady reporting gig now and the money’s decent, a definite improvement on the zero he was making before, but he won’t be able to keep them on a regimen of raw and organic if he has to keep replacing his phone.

“Y—yeah. Thanks, buddy.” He rolls onto his back, rubbing his eyes.

The gratitude that wells in him runs deeper than the exchange warrants. He hasn’t had anyone to wake him since Anne and this, more than anything, makes him feel like he’s not completely alone in the world. The boner throbbing in his boxers is less comforting, but Eddie had his whole adolescence in a Catholic dorm to practice ignoring that away.

Inside him, the symbiote rumbles in acknowledgement. The low timbre is almost a purr and this early, not yet fully awake, it feels a lot like affection.

_Made coffee, Eddie._

He turns to check. Lo and behold, next to his bed is his favorite mug, steam rising from the brim. As if prompted by the mention of caffeine, he finally notices that something’s a tad… off about the  way the way the symbiote nestles inside him. A little hesitant, a little tense. Then his brain kicks in and he remembers.

House in the mountains. Seven people.

When he swallows, the tang of copper lingers at the back of his throat.

_Eddie?_

He sits up, shoulders stiff. Not from pain. Physically speaking, he’s never felt better in his life.

He picks up the mug, takes a sip. It’s hot, on the verge of burning his lips, but not quite. Like it took a spin in the microwave for exactly twenty seconds. Just how he likes it.

Tension radiates from behind his navel, palpable yet vicarious. It feels like worry and the guilt that rises is entirely Eddie’s own.

“Dude, I’m fine. Really. I’m glad we got what we needed last night. I just… It’ll take some getting used to, okay? Just let me deal?”

There’s silence. A band of black appears around his wrist, expanding slightly and contracting again.

_Don’t like when you’re upset, Eddie. Want to help._

His stomach flutters. He’s not sure if his resident ET understands how this kind of touch affects him, or if it’s just mimicking observed behavior, but it feels nice and Eddie can’t bring himself to complain.

To top it off, his cock is still hard despite the topic of conversation.

He hasn’t come in weeks, which wasn’t so unusual in the six the months leading to their meeting, but his libido seems to have revivified with a vengeance. Weird boners have been a feature for a while and from the feel of it, his balls are starting to ache. In theory, it’s just one more embarrassing bodily need that he now has an audience for, but there’s something about the thought of being watched as he gets himself off; about the not-quite-shame burning up the back of his neck and the heavy, whole-body echo as blood throbs southward, that he doesn’t want to face.

The symbiote can sense his arousal and his ambivalence, both. Eddie knows it can, but he has no idea how it’s interpreting these signals and frankly, he’s too mortified to ask.

The incident in the woods floats to the surface of his thoughts. Unbidden, but he knows it’s him, all him.

The symbiote can see whatever he allows to play out in his mind. It can mention things, ask uncomfortable questions and dissect what spills out of his brain, but it can’t one-sidedly pull up a memory that he’s determined to avoid. Like being lifted off the ground, feeling something slimy and solid slam against his lips, offering no resistance as it drags across his tongue, jaw stretched so wide it aches…

Then Anne was there, and he could tell himself that it was her he was kissing, that his response was down to the adrenaline of a near-death experience and a specific type stimulation, that it didn’t mean a thing. But, in the very back of his mind, Eddie knows who he was really kissing between those trees, and if the symbiote didn’t before, it does now.

It doesn’t comment on these thoughts. Never has, which Eddie appreciates.

He’s flushed from too many emotions, skin tingly and too tight. He puts the coffee down anyway and drags in a breath, gives an awkward pat to the black ooze encircling his arm. It’s warm and alive, pulsing faintly, and he has to swallow again, clear his throat.

“You do, bud. You do.”

 _Drink your coffee, Eddie,_ the symbiote says, squeezing tighter before melting back into his bones.

Eddie sighs and does as he’s told.

Once the mug is drained, he finds his phone. He’s in no mood for people; was looking forward to a quiet day of fact checking from the comfort of his couch and maybe making a dent in his laundry, but a message from his editor changes his plans.

He takes a shower – cold – fishes his least dirty jeans from Mount Washing and chooses an unstained, only slightly wrinkled button-down from the floor.

He’s fiddling with his keys, backpack dangling from his elbow as he tries to shrug on his jacket, a protein cookie clamped between his teeth, when his phone chimes again.

Anne’s icon fills the screen.

He’s juggling the keys and the phone, trying to free his mouth to talk and finish dressing, which of course doesn’t work. He drops the cookie first. The phone follows when he lunges to catch it, but neither hit the floor. Black tendrils shoot from his fingers, curling around each and pulling them back into his hold. A smear of symbiote slime oozes through his shoulder, sticking to the jacket and undulating until it settles into place. A tinge of exasperation flares from his chest and Eddie gives a mumbled, “Thanks,” before answering the call.

“Hey, Eddie! Listen, I need you to come down to my office and—”

She launches into a list of documents for him to sign without giving him a chance to say _hi_. She’s leading the class action suit against the Life Foundation, for which Eddie gathered a good chunk of evidence. It’s technically a civil case, but due to the sheer scope of the claims – several of which aren’t even covered under current criminal legislation – the Office of the Public Defender had no choice but to get involved.

Eddie’s affidavit is among the papers she mentions.

The altar boy in him cringes a little at the thought of having to swear to something that, while more a work of creative avoidance than outright deception, is far from the unvarnished truth. He’ll do whatever he has to, though. He’d be lying if he said that he didn’t care about the money; Carlton Drake’s vendetta forced him to go without long enough to develop a healthy respect for the value of a dollar, but the real reward is knowing that he’s doing his part to keep Drake’s corruption from being swept under the rug.

He agrees to meet Anne for lunch at the harbor later. They banter back and forth, like they used to, and Eddie can hear the smile in his own voice as they talk. It feels light, sincere. No longer wistful. He’s glad to be on speaking terms with her again, happy that she’s happy, even if she isn’t his anymore.

They say their goodbyes and Eddie hangs up. The symbiote locked the apartment while he was on the phone, even righted his backpack and tucked the keys inside. Eddie smiles.

He munches his cookie as he heads down the stairs, comfortably aware of the alien weight filling the spaces in his body.

And, if he still feels a little bloated from last night, well, he pushes it to the back of his mind.


	3. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Eddie is faced with what journalists call "a conflict of interest."

His editor, Miranda Rivas, is a thirty-year veteran of the news industry with some very memorable headlines under her belt. She looks like someone’s grandma – does, in fact, have a collage frame with photos of smiling children on her desk – but there is nothing sugar-coated or coddling in the way she manages content.

Her door is open. Eddie knocks anyway.

Miranda doesn’t look up from her laptop. “I have a story for you, Brock. High on shock value, so it’s bound to grab attention. I offered it to Solis, but he doesn’t have the stomach.”

“What’s it about?” Eddie asks, cautiously curious.

Miranda does look up then. She stares pointedly at the chair across her desk and Eddie takes the hint. She types, fingers sliding over the touchpad and as he slides into the seat, Miranda looks him in the eye. “Brace yourself, kid.”

She turns the computer around and Eddie finds himself facing the screen.

It takes a moment to register what he’s seeing. He feels movement inside, his vision sharpening as the symbiote peers out through his eyes.

Recognition coalesces and his blood turns to ice. “Oh my God.”

It’s been – he glances at the clock in the corner of the display – not even twelve whole hours. He thought it would take longer, that there’d be more time for the bodies to decay, for evidence to degrade.

Shit. Fuck. Shit.

He was able to bury the sightings of himself turning into a pitch-black, nine-foot-tall monster under a shtick about the Life Foundation and experimental hallucinogens for military use. It wasn’t even entirely fabricated. Drake was a man with fingers in many a pie and with the Board of Directors balls deep in lawsuits and investigations, no one has come forward to dispute Eddie’s version of events.

It’s been months and the city has moved on, directing their anger toward the cut-and-dry bogeyman that is corporate greed and the tangible goal of funneling Drake’s money toward repairing the damage he caused.

Eddie has been breathing a little easier, but he knows they can’t afford to be complacent.

As Venom, they have a knack for rooting out circuits and currents. There were only a few cameras on the estate, acting as eyes along the perimeter of the property with their hard drives removed. No recorded footage, which makes sense, considering the place was a bolthole for people who didn’t want their associations exposed. The cameras were easy to avoid; the motion sensors in the garden were trickier, but they managed.

Inside, the house was huge and the inhabitants didn’t seem inclined to mingle. They moved from room to room, taking out one at a time, two at the most, without alerting the others. No one called for help and there was no one alive when they left.

They checked. They made sure. So how did—

“Maid service came in to clean. Found this shit show,” Miranda says and Eddie realizes that he – or his occupant, rather – posed the question aloud.

“Oh,” is all he can muster as he stares at the image. His fingers hover over the touchpad and he shoots a glance up for permission.

Miranda nods and he begins to scroll.

Last night, in the heat of the frenzy, Eddie didn’t realize how much of a mess they made. There’s blood everywhere. A ribcage gapes open, bones gleaming white though shreds of flesh. Reams of intestines spread out across the floor, like streamers after a party.

Wetness floods his mouth, forcing him to swallow or risk drooling on his boss’ desk. He’s suddenly very aware of the edges of his teeth and there’s an ache in his gums, an urge to bite down.

“Holy shit,” he rasps.

Inside him, the symbiote shudders and Eddie remembers. How full they felt, how sated and strong. His dick twitches in his jeans.

He blows out a breath and grips his knee. He squeezes his eyes shut, rubbing the lids with forefinger and thumb in an attempt to dispel what now seems etched into his retinas. He wants to reach down and adjust himself, but he doesn’t dare. Miranda is nothing if not observant and he really, really cannot come off as a creep.

Her impatient scrutiny is like a physical weight. “If you’re gonna hurl, get your ass to the bathroom, junior. I had this carpet cleaned not twenty minutes ago.”

Usually, her office smells like decades old cigarette smoke, but today, the astringency of artificial pine hangs on the air. “Nah, I’m—” Eddie shakes his head, face on fire as he swallows another mouth full of spit. “I’m good. I’m good.”

Miranda’s brows arch above the thick hornrim of her glasses, but she takes pity on him and turns the computer around.

“How do you even have those?” Eddie chokes out. “The law says—”

“I know what the law says, kid,” Miranda cuts in. “Yeah, technically the press isn’t supposed to get wind until after the vics are ID-ed, but you don’t stay in this game without knowing how to stay ahead. We’re playing this one by the book, but I want you ready to go to print the second the official story breaks. I want us leading on this.”

“What about the cops? Do they have any leads yet?” Eddie tries, grasping for professionalism, even as he dreads the answer.

Miranda shrugs, palm turned up. “Scene’s fresh. My source at the SFPD took those shots before CIS arrived. Everything’s up in the air at this point. But here’s the kicker, Brock.” She leans in close. “There are body parts missing.”

“Missing?” Eddie repeats.                                                                                           

Miranda nods. She leans back, linking her fingers in front of her. “Heads for one, organs too. There’s a shitload of forensics that need to be processed, but you saw the photos. Those people were slaughtered.” She clicks her tongue, mouth a moue of disgust. “Makes what Chuck Manson’s bunch did look like a damn kiddie’s finger-painting.”

Eddie bristles at the comparison. “The Masons were cultist whackjobs,” he says, unthinking.

Miranda sends him a sideways look. “And you figure the freaks who did this aren’t?”

“I— I don’t know,” Eddie stammers, feeling the symbiote wriggle inside him.

It’s curious about the things Miranda is saying, excited by the reminder of their killing spree and keyed up from Eddie’s nervousness. It’s like talking to his boss while holding an invisible toddler on a sugar binge – challenging under the best of circumstance, let alone while trying to dodge a multiple homicide rap.

 _You have got to calm down_ , he thinks. _We cannot make a mistake here, man. This is serious._

Immediately, the symbiote stills. A pang of petulance skitters up his spine, but at least he can him hear himself think.

Looking to Miranda, he says, “I just don’t want to make assumptions right now. These guys, they could have been…” Eddie makes a rolling gesture with his hand. “I don’t know, harvesting organs for the black market and trying to cover it up with a bloodbath. Anything’s possible, is all I’m saying.”

“I don’t want any of your crazy conspiracy theories, Brock.” Miranda’s tone is flat, but the corners of her mouth tick up and Eddie can’t tell if he’s being warned or egged on.

“No ma’am,” he says earnestly, wondering if anything could sound crazier than the truth.

The conversation veers to his piece on ethics in corporate research and progress in the Life Foundation suit.

By the time Miranda dismisses him with a reminder of his deadline, “Friday. My inbox. Don’t make me call you, Eddie,” his nerves are shot.

He has a desk tucked in a corner, but one of the perks of this job is that he doesn’t have to be shackled to it all day. He can work from anywhere and right now, he’d rather be anywhere else. He nods greetings at a couple of fellow writers, pointedly not stopping to make small talk. Not the best networking strategy for the new guy, but that’s the least of his cares.

He’s too worked up to go home, so he hops on a tram to the waterfront to kill time until his appoint with Anne.


	4. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Eddie is stressed and the goo has anxiety.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> S/o to [thethemultifariousweirdo](https://themultifariousweirdo.tumblr.com/) and [bh-chaotic](https://bh-chaotic.tumblr.com//) for all their help with this fic. Without them, my insecurities would get the better of me and I would never post anything.

The harbor is a popular spot for locals and tourists alike. There are days when there’s hardly room to put one foot in front of the other without treading on another human, but pre-noon on a Wednesday in the middle of September, it’s uncrowded enough to be calming.

Eddie stands with his arms folded on top of the railing, watching ships skim the horizon. As he looks out over the water, he finds himself being grilled on the workings of the California justice system by his favorite undocumented immigrant.

One of the first things he bought after his paycheck cleared was a Bluetooth headset. It comes in handy for a guy who goes around ostensibly talking to himself, but with the topics they broach, it doesn’t deflect quite as many stares as he’d hoped.

The symbiote has been learning about laws and courts and jails through Eddie’s work and his meetings with Anne. It’s better acquainted with the concept of rules and penalties than Eddie expected, given how often he’s had to explain why eating someone over a minor offense isn’t an option. Once the symbiote shared a little about “the collective” and the hierarchies that govern its own culture, Eddie began to understand. It was sparing on the details, but he got the sense that being “a loser” in symbiote terms, was a lot worse than anything he could imagine.

He’s all the more determined to help his not-parasite adjust to life on Earth and to being as supportive a host as he can, but today is a little more trying than usual.

… _not make sense, Eddie! If they were bad and the court would have punished them anyway, and it would have cost money to punish them, then we helped. They should thank us!_

Eddie hunches over the railing, the beginnings of a headache throbbing in his temples. “Look, man, its complicated. I’ll find you a documentary or something when we get home, but trust me. It’ll be very, very bad if we get caught.”

“Get caught at what?”

Anne speaks up behind him and Eddie nearly jumps out of his skin. “Jesus!”

He turns too fast. He stares at her for a second, trying to swallow his pounding heart back down into his chest.

“He-e-ey, Annie,” he aims for casual, but his voice is an octave too high. Her eyes flick to the side of his face and it’s only then that he remembers the Bluetooth. He clamps his hand to the speaker as if shielding a conversation. “Uh. So, I’ll have to call you back, man. Uh, thanks for, um. Looking into that for me.”

He tears the headset from his ear and stuffs it in his backpack, pasting on a smile.

Anne doesn’t smile back. “What are you up to, Eddie? Who was that?”

He gives a jerky shrug. “Just, um. Just a source?” His inflection makes it sound like a question and he clears his throat. “A source for a story. He’s, uh, looking into lifting some receipts for me. No big.”

Anne’s expression is the picture of skepticism, but she lets it go. Eddie knows she’s telling herself that it’s none of her business. He can practically read it in her eyes. He waits for the dull pang of loss and it comes, but he’s also unexpectedly relieved.

He puts a little more effort into making his smile reassuring and offers to carry her briefcase as they head to a Mexican food truck with good burritos and black coffee if you ask.

They find a bench that looks out over the water. As soon as they’re seated, Anne dives into a report on the case. Eddie only barely keeps up as she talks about stall tactics and diversions the opposing legal team are using and how she and her people plan to respond. She has always been passionate about her work, but he’s never seen her this invested before.

A small, egotistical part of him wants to believe that it’s because she’s fighting for him, but he’s one of over a hundred plaintiffs. She’s helping. She’s making a difference and he wants to tell her that he sees it, that he’s proud of her. With their history, though, that would be rich coming from him, so he keeps his thoughts to himself and eats his food, making appropriately attentive noises as she speaks.

When the food’s gone and the wrappers disposed of, Anne pulls out the papers she brought for him to sign. He doesn’t bother to read, won’t understand most of the jargon anyway and Anne is one of few people he trusts. Eddie has been doing this a lot recently and he knows the drill. They chat as he goes through the near mechanical process of squiggling his signature on every page and, somewhere along the way, the discussion centers on him.

She asks about his apartment, still with bullet holes in the kitchen tiles, and when he’s planning to move.

He’s not.

She asks about his job, about his boss and his coworkers and how he’s settling in.

Just fine.

There’s a pause as he signs the last page and bundles the stack together. She takes it from him and tucks it away, but she doesn’t rise to leave like he expected.

She’s chewing her lip, looking at him like she’s weighing her words. He waits, brows raised in question.

“Listen, Eddie.” She runs a hand through her hair and leans forward until blonde strands are shielding her face. “I know a lot of things happened with the Life Foundation that maybe you can’t talk to other people about. And, I just want you to know—” She draws a breath through her nose, lips tight, her discomfort palpable. “Please don’t misunderstand what I’m getting at here. I didn’t have it… him? _Venom_ with me for long, but…”

Eddie’s hackles rise.

He started out calling the symbiote “Venom” as well, but he quickly picked up that that’s not really how it sees itself. Its core identity isn’t rooted in language. When Eddie asked, it vibrated inside him, the frequency low and soothing as it showed him bursts of light and texture, like a laser artist’s version of Aurora Borealis over a desert of black sand. He has no idea how that might translate into English, but as the weeks wore on, the name “Venom” has started to feel… personal, like it belongs to Eddie too.

Hearing Anne use it now to refer to the symbiote – his “other,” as he’s increasingly catching himself thinking – as separate from him, is unsettling.

“…I kind of got the impression that he thought of you as, I don’t know. Special? I mean, I don’t know if you felt the same things, but—”

“I did,” Eddie interrupts. There’s too much emotion in his voice, but he can’t help himself. _I do,_ he thinks at the symbiote and feels it pulsate in reply.

_Special, Eddie. Perfect. Ours._

He’d only been hosting it for a few of days back then, but their separation, brief as it was, was one of the most jarring experience of his life. In the hospital, when Dr Dan showed him the MRI report and explained what was happening to his organs, Eddie’s kneejerk reaction was more hurt than pissed. He felt used and foolish for expecting anything else, so he turned his back and left the symbiote writhing against the glass, spitefully wanting it to feel as alone and betrayed as he did.

The walk to the elevator was enough for the immediate shock to recede, leaving a sense of loss, as if something meaningful and defining had been torn away. He was going to turn around and go back, but then the doors dinged and Drake’s thugs were there. As the tranquilizer pulled him under, all Eddie could think was that they were both going to die and that he’d ruined something good before he’d had a chance to understand what it was.

In the here and now, the safe-good-happy of their connection swells in his chest and Eddie can’t tell if it’s coming from him or the symbiote, or if the distinction even matters.

He’s so overcome that it takes him a moment to notice that Anne has stopped talking.

When he looks up, her face is pale, lips parted in shock.

“Eddie, your eyes,” she breathes. “I saw… in your eyes just now.”

And Eddie knows what she means before she does: a flicker of silver over pupil and iris. Eddie has seen it happen in the mirror, when their connection runs especially strong. Saw it last night when he was undressing to shower and caught a glimpse of his stomach, distended with human remains.

Anne blinks rapidly, as if trying to unsee what she knows is in front of her. Then, “Oh my God, he’s _still_ inside you?!”

In the periphery of his awareness, Eddie registers the snicker of teenagers passing on skateboards, the scandalized look from an elderly man walking his dog.

He can feel he symbiote huddled in a tight ball in the middle of his body, hemorrhaging waves of regret. Eddie’s overwhelming instinct is to comfort it, but he has to deal with Anne first.

“Yes, alright? Yes, I lied and I’m sorry. Please keep your voice down,” he hisses.

Anne looks around, startled, as if she forgot they’re in public. Her eyes flash as she turns back to him.

“Eddie, what the _hell_ are you thinking?! That thing eats people, for Christ’s sake!”

“Oh, believe me, I know.” Eddie realizes his mistake the moment the words leave his lips. He leans back, takes a breath, rubs at his eyes, but the damage is done.

“Eddie,” Anne’s voice is trembling. “What are you saying? Who were you talking to when I got here? What did you do?”

He considers evading, but up on Goodhill Road is a house with seven eviscerated bodies. It’s going to be news and it’s going to be big. Anne will see, she’ll know and it’ll be worse if she doesn’t hear it from him.

He doesn’t look at her, can’t bear to see the horror on her face. “Annie, please don’t freak out, okay? We need to eat. We can’t help that, but we made a deal. Bad guys only. The kind of people the law won’t touch. I found a cartel. Human traffickers. We went there last night.”

“Y—you… killed someone?” She barely breathes the words. Eddie almost doesn’t hear what she says, but he hunches over and lets his eyes dart, making sure nobody else did either.

No one is paying them any attention.

“Seven,” he corrects, catching her gaze through his hair. “There were seven of them. Five mercs and two runners, helping to kidnap people so they can sell them. These fuckers peddle little kids for sex like cheap toys at the pharmacy. They earned what they got, Annie. With interest.”

“Eddie, you—” She’s breathing too fast. She stops, gazes up at nothing and he knows she’s mentally counting backwards from ten. She closes her eyes. Her face is grim as she mutters, “I thought it was dead. You told me it was dead.”

He scowls. “You say that like it’s a good thing.”

She looks at him. “It was _killing_ you,” she hisses. “God, I vouched for you, I lied for you. I could be disbarred! I put my career on the line for you – again – and now? Now, you’re telling me—” She glances down sharply.

Eddie follows her gaze. He didn’t feel his hand shift, but he finds it covering hers, clenched white-knuckled between them around the edge of the bench. An inky sheen flows from his fingers, ebbing and surging quickly over Anne’s skin, like the contrite licks of a dog, before retreating into Eddie.

He takes his hand back and tucks both under his arms. He can feel the symbiote’s unease, the realization that Anne is unhappy with it, the confusion over what it did wrong and something fiercely protective ignites in his gut.

“You’re scaring him,” he grits out.

Anne’s eyebrows shoot up. “ _I’m_ scaring hi—?”

“Yes!” Eddie snaps. His voice doesn’t rise, but the vehemence is unmistakable.

Anne stares back, mouth open in shock.

For all his tenacity on the job, Eddie tends to make for a rather laid-back boyfriend. He watched his old man’s temper wreck his parents’ marriage and when it came to his own relationships, his modus operandi has always been to imagine what Carl Brock would do and to followed through with the exact opposite. It hasn’t really worked in his favor, spiraling into the contrary extremes of suppression and denial, passive-aggression and self-sabotage. Like what finally drove the woman beside him to give back his ring.

Annie has seen him at his absolute worst, but it dawns on Eddie that this might well be the first time she’s ever seen him angry.

He licks his lips, shoulders hunching as he tells himself to calm down. His tone is carefully neutral as he asks, “Have you considered how all this looks from his perspective, hm?”

Anne says nothing and Eddie forges ahead. “He was literally abducted by aliens and experimented on. Except, the douchebag who took him was doing it to his own people too. Not the best first impression. And then? After all that, he still risked his own life to keep humanity, us—” _me_ , he thinks but doesn’t say “—safe. He turned his back on everything he knows to fight for a race that tortured him, Anne.”

The symbiote is listening. Eddie can feel its focus and something like awe thrumming from the base of his skull and he sits a little straighter. “If anything, he’s a political refugee now. I’m all he’s got and I’m going to make sure he gets what he needs. If that means a couple of psychos get justice at the end of the food chain instead of behind bars, then fine.”

Anne’s already wan pallor tinges slightly green. “Food chain? Seriously, Eddie?”

He fidgets. He didn’t mean to unnerve her further. He looks at her, pleading with his eyes. “I didn’t tell you, because I didn’t want to drag you into my shit again. I swear, I was just trying to protect you. You and Dan, both. But now I’ve fucked that up too and I’m sorry. God, I— I’m so, so sorry.” His eyes sting and he swallows. “I’m an asshole and I know I have no right to ask you for anything. I _know_ , but this isn’t just about me anymore. If people find out…”

Eddie shakes his head, staring at a spot on the pavement. “All I know is, it won’t be good. So please? Please don’t tell anyone? I know it’s a lot to ask, but Drake wasn’t the only narcissistic fuck with money, and. Just, please, okay?”

The silence drags on for a long, uncomfortable moment. Eddie holds his breath until he hears Anne sigh. “Oh, Eddie.”

“Are you going to call the cops?” he asks without looking up. He has to know.

“No, you idiot.” There’s little heat in her voice, mostly resignation. “I just hope to God you know what you’re doing.”

A self-deprecating chuckle squirms up his throat. “Have I ever?”

“Not helping, champ,” Anne says, clapping him on the shoulder. She does get up then, picking up her briefcase and holding it in front of her. Eddie tries not to compare it to a shield.

She’s tense, but she attempts a smile. “I really should get back to the office.”

He stands as well. He’s debating whether it would be okay to hug her when she steps forward and slings an arm around his shoulders.

“Take care. Both of you.”

“Y—yeah,” he says. “You too.”

Figuring she could probably use some space, he swallows the offer to walk her to the tram stop.

As he watches her leave, Eddie feels the odd, pulling pressure of the symbiote leaking onto his skin. It doesn’t push through his clothes; just spreads over his back and around his middle, keeping still.

A lump forms in his throat when he recognizes the hold for what it’s meant to imitate. He wraps an arm around himself, hugging back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know in the comic verse Eddie's mom dies in childbirth, but I hate the "dead mother" trope, so I'm choosing to ignore it. Also, Eddie mentions his mom to Anne in the movie, so I consider her presence in his life to be canon.


	5. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Eddie unpacks some baggage and the symbiote learns something new.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The other otp gets a cameo in this one. Sorry, I am weak and couldn't resist. On a more serious note, this chapter deals with internalized homophobia and D/s themes. Please check the end-note for specifics.

They’re at a bar, not Eddie’s usual. It’s trendier, a little more upscale and lot more expensive, chosen for being the type of place where he can wear his earpiece without getting shit for it.

Dressed in his old leather jacket, torn jeans and mismatched bracelets, Eddie doesn’t fit the crowd and that suits him just fine. After an afternoon spent in the stuffy silence of the San Francisco library, the buzz of human activity is its own kind of comfort. He’s not looking for company, and since his expose on Carlton Drake, every shlub at his old haunt is suddenly his best friend. The free beer would have been nice, if his body’s designated driver would let him drink it – _This is damaging us, Eddie! Wasting reserves! How can it be_ meant _to taste like this?!_ – but the insincerity of it all is a bit too transparent for Eddie’s nerves.

His self-appointed health guru balked at coke as well, so he raises his glass of fucking lime water to his lips. “You think they’ll find traces of our DNA?” he asks into the mouthpiece, picking up the conversation they’ve been recycling for the last five days.

He feels the symbiote twitch, its version of a shrug. _If they do, it won’t register as human._

 “Oh well, that’s real comforting.”

There’s a stretching, undulating motion, circling his lungs and Eddie imagines a sigh.

_No police lab is going to trace anything back to you, Eddie. Most humans are lazy and unimaginative. If they find a DNA sequence that doesn’t match what they know, they’ll discard it as inconclusive. There’s no data, nothing for them to compare to. The superior – Riot? It killed the scientists who were studying us._

_There are plenty of powerful people on this planet; why do you think it came for Drake specifically, hm? Why do you think it was so adamant about rounding us up after abandoning us to be dissected for six months? First rule of scouting, Eddie: don’t leave anything behind that can be used to fight the collective._

_That’s why your hacker friends in Seattle aren’t finding anything. Riot was a dick but he was thorough and Drake had the means to ruin your entire life in twenty-four hours. You think he couldn’t wipe a couple of servers?_

_And even if the cops do scrape together a sample of our genes, and even if they do look into it, and even if they do find a stray record that survived somehow, it won’t match the samples the Life Foundation took when they brought us here. When we find a compatible host, we adapt, Eddie. We are different now, and no one’s going to come looking, because there are no trails that lead to you. You’re_ safe _with us!_

Eddie exhales, grudgingly impressed.

The symbiote has been watching every crime show and cop documentary he could stream for it. It even found an online lecture series on forensics without his help.

Eddie knows it’s smart, knows it can be insightful, but the rate at which it learns has astounded him these past few days. It occurred to him that he should’ve thought to expand its education before they took their trip into the mountains, but just last week it was barely strong enough to push through his skin and with their body running on fumes, he’d felt its hunger like his own, so desperate for a meal that he could hardly think straight himself.

He’s amazed at how much better he feels since they’ve eaten. More focused, less lethargic, more present and connected. He even started lifting again. Now, if he could only get a handle on his anxiety over the police investigation.

He wishes he could share his other’s confidence in their safety, but the possibility of another armored squad with assault rifles busting down their door is enough to give him nightmares. All it would take for his hallucinogen cover to crumble is one good shot of him on his bike, leaking black slime all over San Francisco streets. He’s used every trick he knows, called in favors from people in the lowest places to try and piece together an idea of who knows what and what kind of evidence is out there.

Very little, it turns out.

He knows the SWAT team that confronted them at the network building had to have footage of the fight that ensued; is sure Drake’s drones couldn’t have tracked them through the city without some kind of camera feed, but if they did, all of it is gone. The only explanation is the one his symbiote just gave: that Drake and his ugly little cohort made sure to wipe the slate clean before they died.

 “I hope you’re right, V,” Eddie murmurs, sipping his water.

… _V?_

The voice in his head is bemused, though there’s a hint of interest as well, as if it doesn’t hate the sound of it.

Eddie squirms. “Yeah, ‘V’ for ‘Venom’? I know that’s _our_ name. You and me, when we’re… when we,” _hunt_ , he thinks, not sure why he can’t bring himself to say it out loud. Even if someone eavesdrops, they won’t know what he’s talking about, but mentioning it in public feels vaguely indecent, like kissing and telling, so Eddie keeps it to himself. “I won’t use it if you don’t like it. You showed me your real name and it’s awesome, but all I’ve got is English and bad Spanish. I’m not good at the whole,” he gestures vaguely, “vision speak thing. Sorry, but I’m just going to keep butchering it and I’d rather not call you ‘dude’ and ‘man’ and ‘buddy’ all the time. I sound like a spaced-out frat jock.”

_Spaced-out?_

“It means being high on weed.”

_Weed?_

“It’s a plant with, uh, chemicals in it. If humans smoke it, or eat it, it makes us high – intoxicated.”

 _Mh,_ the symbiotic grumbles, the sound carried on a pulse of disgust. _We’ve seen what passes for memories in this state, yours and other hosts.’ It’s not healthy, Eddie. You know this, but you seek it out deliberately. You enjoy poisoning yourselves._

Eddie shrugs, striving to ignore the reference to _other hosts._ He doesn’t like the feeling it stirs. He tells himself that its indignation on behalf of innocent people who died. Because jealousy would be absurd and he’s not jealous – he’s _not_.

“Humans are screwy like that. Besides, the more a person’s circumstances suck, the more they’ll risk to escape for a while, even if it’s only in their own head.”

The symbiote’s curiosity is piqued and Eddie finishes his water in-between answering questions on pop psyche and recreational drug use. He orders another, adding some hipster sushi thing from the specials board when the mixologist glares. Their conversation begins to drift down memory lane, to life in New York and his years in college and high school. He talks about his mom and his sister who moved to Nebraska with her husband and four girls; avoids talking about his dad. He recounts the stupid shit he did as a kid and what he learned from it. And all the while, his symbiote listens, purring softly.

By the time Eddie gets up and drops a couple of notes on the bar, he’s relaxed – genuinely, honestly at peace for the first time in longer than he can easily recall. It’s a nice feeling, novel enough to qualify as a high in own right. He’s actually humming under his breath as he steps out into the cool autumn air, helmet in hand.

As he turns the corner into the alley where he parked his motorcycle, movement catches his eye. There’s a dull thud of flesh hitting brick and he ducks back on reflex. It’s dark in the narrow slit between buildings, with only the faint glow of street lamps casting shadows. He holds his breath, feeling the symbiote slide through his veins. There’s a prickly, pulsing pressure as it pours into his eye sockets, tweaking until his vision adjusts.

His bike is there, and just beyond it, a couple of guys who couldn’t be less interested in Eddie’s transport. One is dressed in the remains of a corporate ensemble, sans jacket and tie, his charcoal shirt contrasting with a flash of vivid ginger hair. The other is in all black, sporting dark, wavy curls at a length reminiscent of nineties grunge. They’re both tall, taller than Eddie’s very average five-nine, but that’s not what keeps him riveted. The redhead is on the slender side; the other is obviously familiar with the inside of a gym. And it’s the muscular guy who has his back to the wall.

Eddie can make out a forearm jammed across the thicker guy’s throat, forcing his head back, a knee thrust between his thighs. They’re standing nearly chest to chest. The skinny one’s face is obscured, hidden behind his counterpart’s as if he’s whispering in his ear.

If he is, it’s too low for Eddie to catch, but Muscle Man’s face is speaking volumes: eyes heavy-lidded, lips slack, throat arched as if welcoming the pressure on his airway. His hands hang loosely at his sides and Eddie suspects that if not for the wall holding him up, he’d sink to his knees.

Inside him, the symbiote bristles, primed for violence. _He’s not fighting back, Eddie. He’s stronger, higher muscle mass. Why is he just—_

Slender Man’s face is suddenly in view. His teeth close on his partner’s bottom lip, pulling on the vulnerable flesh. He lets go when the other guy winces and then his hand is in his hair, yanking him into a kiss that lands like a punch. This, Eddie can hear, sloppy and wet and deep and lewd. A hand drops to Buff Guy’s groin, squeezing too hard to be painless, but the moan that tears from his lips is the furthest thing from protest.

The sound hits him square in the gut and Eddie staggers, reels. The wind huffs out of him as his back slams against the mortar facing the street and it’s only the symbiote’s quick reflexes that keep his helmet from hitting the pavement. He drags a hand across his eyes, focuses on the up-down motion of his ribcage to reorient himself.

_Eddie?_

He nods, willing the symbiote to understand the gesture. _Fine. All good._ Another throaty sound bleeds from the alley and that jolts his legs into motion.

_Where are we going? The bike is back there—Eddie, answer us!_

He gets in a few more strides before his legs freeze beneath him, the sudden loss of momentum throwing off his balance for a sec.

“Alright, V! Dammit,” he whispers harshly. He’s pretty sure the guys in the alley can’t hear him, probably won’t care if they could, yet Eddie’s the one feeling painfully exposed.

He’s always liked to be handled a little roughly, practically melting when a partner would get bossy and tell him what to do.

His exes, for the most part, have been… fairly vanilla, though. His first taste of anything else was with the goth chick he dated for a month during his sophomore year in college – her real name was Claire, but she introduced herself as “Pneumonia.” She treated it as almost a joke, with lots of exaggerated theatrics and giggling that made it impossible to stay in the mood. Annie came closest to giving him what he craved, but even with her, it was more of a garnish; a sexual appetizer rather than a full-course meal.

It would probably have helped if he opened his mouth and said out loud what he wanted, but that would’ve meant facing what he was raised to hate about himself. He’s good at dragging other people’s bullshit into the open, but when it comes to his own issues, Eddie Brock has always excelled at avoidance over confrontation.

He’d be a shrink’s wet dream, but he’s never needed professional help to know that his penchant for digging up other people’s secrets is at least partly an effort to bury his own.

Of course, he’s recently been handed a shovel and a vocal one at that.

_What is wrong with you?!_

Eddie laughs, a little hysterical. “Depends on who you ask, man.”

_Eddie…_

There’s an edge of warning in the symbiote’s tone, but Eddie can feel the worry churning underneath. It’s stuck in fight-or-flight – or _fight_ rather, since the alternative never seems to occur to it – poised to protect and trying to assess a threat it has no frame of reference for.

“Let’s… let’s take a walk, V.” His muscles tense to take a step, but the symbiote keeps him still.

_The bike is the other way!_

“I know, but,” Eddie feels the blood rush to his face, “let’s give those guys some privacy, huh?”

_Why do they scare you so much? We don’t know why the bigger one doesn’t defend himself, but we can take the smaller one, easy. Doesn’t matter if he’s armed._

Great. How the hell is he supposed to explain heteronormativity to someone with no concept of sex or gender?

“They’re not fighting, V. It’s… like a game. He _wants_ someone to treat him like that. The other guy’s probably his boyfriend.”

The symbiote quiets. Eddie takes a tentative step and finds his legs obeying. It’s not that late, just after eleven, but the Monday crowd is thin. A couple of haggard-looking twenty-somethings radiate start-of-term anxiety in front of a convenience store they pass; a woman in a business jacket cuts across their path as her Uber pulls up to the curb. Eddie veers down a side street and they find themselves alone.

He can’t read his other’s thoughts with the same proficiency it does his, but he can sort of discern the general direction of its focus. It’s mulling over what they saw and what he said, trying to wrap its mind around this new barrage of human strangeness.

The symbiote doesn’t ask, but Eddie attempts an explanation anyway. He tries for academic and objective, but it comes out disjointed, swerving awkwardly between ninth-grade health class, Pride primers and BDSM. He wants to seem detached, pretend that none of this is of consequence to him, but it’s very hard to lie to someone who lives inside your head.

_You want that too._

“I’ve never done it with another guy!” The deflection is automatic, flying from his lips like lines from a script.

_But you’ve wanted to._

It’s not a question. It doesn’t have to be. Years of porn and fantasies and furtive, hasty glances are looping behind his eyes, offering proof.

Eddie chews on the inside of his cheek. “Yeah,” he admits on an exhale, the first time he’s said so out loud.

_Why?_

And he senses that he’s not being asked, _why do you want to be fucked by another man_ , but _why haven’t you allowed it to happen?_ Like it’s that simple, like it’s just that easy and he’s been stupid for denying himself.

The symbiote has a grasp of several different kinds of prejudice, but homophobia, Eddie supposes, is understandably abstract.

He stops walking and closes his eyes. A thousand images bubble to the surface of his mind, of Carl Brock’s disgusted sneer, of his Uncle Marty’s jokes and the sharp edge to his cousins’ snickering. His classmates’ voices ring in his ears – _fag; pussy; ew, that’s gay_ – offset by Father Michael’s kindly tenor and gentle, offhand condemnation. He thinks about the guys on the baseball team, his closest friends in college and the long list of roommates he had before making it big enough in New York to afford a place of his own.

He’s never been around someone who made him feel safe enough to talk about this before, and until this instant, he’d managed to convince himself that it doesn’t matter.

He really does like women. They’re interesting and complicated in their own way, but they’re expected; people he could date and have sex with without anybody giving him shit for it. When he and Anne got engaged, he was so fucking happy. He’d found the person he believed he was going to be with forever. She was beautiful and smart and she knew what a piping-hot mess he was, but she loved him anyway. The fact that the thought of a dick in mouth, sliding over his tongue and bumping against his palate was more enticing than repulsive, was moot.

Or it should have been.

But then Eddie had to go and run his mouth to a man with more money than the Vatican and now, here they are.

The symbiote picks up on the thought. _You regret—_

The wave of hurt that floods him pulls up Eddie’s denial before the question can be fully asked. “No! God, V, never! I can’t tell you… when I thought I’d lost you…” His throat closes with the horror of the memory – _Goodbye, Eddie_ – and he shakes his head. “I’ll always be a little sad about Annie, but that’s been over for months. I’ve got you now and she’s got Dan and he’s great and you’re—” he stops himself from saying _perfect. “_ You’re _you_. Don’t mind me, okay? This is just… a difficult topic. It’s not your fault.”

 _Mh,_ the symbiote acknowledges vaguely. Eddie feels it coiling inside him, brooding for lack of a better description. His helmet is getting heavy and he shifts it to his other hand before carrying on up the hill. He wasn’t exactly planning to get his cardio done in the run-up to midnight, but it’s nice out and since he’s here, he might as well get his blood pumping.

The hill crests into an intersection with a row of novelty shops lining the street front. Tucked between a thrift store and an artisanal bakery, he finds a small alcove that overlooks the bay. A full moon casts a shimmery trail across the water. He can see the shadow of the Golden Gate Bridge in the distance, but not the Life Foundation building. Its lights are out, shrouding it in darkness.

Eddie feels a rush of satisfaction.

It won’t wipe out bad practice and exploitation, but maybe Big Pharma has taken a hard-enough kick to the pants to tread carefully for a while.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eddie shares memories of homophobic experiences from his past, including the f-slur. It's not directed at him, but he uses this to explain to the symbiote why he's never acted on his attraction to other men. There's also a brief description of consensual rough foreplay between unnamed characters. I feel like I should mention, if hardcore sexy times is triggering for you, this is not the best fic for you to be reading.


	6. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the night is not yet over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter, but kind of intense, so I'm letting it stand on its own. Also, I made a small revision to the last chapter, since people were having a heck of a time guessing who I have making out in the alley. Hope the mystery is now... less mysterious. Please see the end-note for this chapter's warnings.

He ends up wandering the streets for over an hour. Not because he’s worried that the alley might stay occupied for that long, but because there’s something free and a little thrilling about walking by himself, knowing that he’s the most dangerous thing the urban darkness can hide.

He isn’t hunting, not really, but he finds himself listening for anything that sounds like trouble, not to evade, but to approach.

Eddie is mildly disappointed when he circles back to the street where he started without incident.

The symbiote has been quiet throughput their walk, which isn’t altogether unusual. It likes to observe and listen, taking in the world as Eddie sees it, communicating in bursts of color and vibration as often as it does in words, but the dense intensity of this silence is… different. If Eddie had to compare it to something, he’d say it’s a lot like their harrowing first few hours together, when he could feel another presence inside him, curious and opinionated, but unsure how to make itself known.

A noise from an alley they pass has him pausing. Cat eyes gleam through the gloom and Eddie waits for a comment about how tasty it looks, or a question about why it’s okay to eat livestock, but not strays.

His symbiote stays silent, its focus centered inward and he realizes with a twinge of concern that it’s not even aware of the cat; something alive and potentially edible, yet it hasn’t even noticed.

Eddie starts walking again, scratching his head, fidgety with nerves.

The symbiote has no reason to be angry with him, but he has a bad habit of assuming responsibility for other people’s moods.

“V?” The streets are empty; he doesn’t have to disguise that he’s talking to himself and he doesn’t bother to try. “You can talk to me, you know? If… if you want to ask something, or say something – anything? You’re always saying how you want to help and shit, but so you know, that goes both ways, dude. I want to help you too. Any way I can.”

He feels the silence inside him shift, becoming less closed, but still pensive. Like the quiet of someone searching for words to explain a concept not yet mastered.

 _… Perhaps this is why you are such a good host_.

Eddie smiles, glad to have his symbiote talking again. “You mean being helpful? Yeah, that’s a pretty standard requirement for human relationships too—whoa! Hey!”

He startles as his legs speed up without his input, propelling him forward at a near jog into the alley where he left his bike.

He comes to a halt beside it, though instead of throwing a leg over the seat, he feels the tell-tale pull of the symbiote pushing through his skin. He looks down with altered vision to see a thick black smear oozing through his clothes. It crawls up his chest and his fingers clench around his helmet, unable to suppress a shiver as it meets the bare skin of his neck, sliding higher, up to his temple and into his hair.

 _You never fought us, Eddie._ The voice is still only in his head, but with the warm, pulsing form of his other so close to his ear, it feels…

Goosebumps skitter down his back. His lips part, breath hitching at the sweet, shocking intimacy.

 _All the others did. Fought so hard. With their bodies, with their minds,_ his symbiote is saying, level and clear, but Eddie can feel its focus, sharp enough to cut, cataloguing his responses.  _They didn’t want us, Eddie. Died rather than let us stay. But not you._

He can feel its grin curving in his belly and it’s the most uncanny sensation.

 _Even when we separated in the hospital and your words rejected us, you didn’t mean it. We could tell: you wanted to be claimed_.

And suddenly, it’s an hour ago and Eddie’s heart is leaping into his throat at the sight of a stranger’s willing capitulation. It’s not his own memory, he realizes. This is what the symbiote saw through his eyes, what it felt inside him.

His head spins with the force of it and he feels himself moving, propelled gently backwards until brick materializes and he slumps against the wall.

As the vertigo recedes, he chokes up a laugh. “I don’t know if that’s the same thing, V,” he says, voice hoarse.

 _No_ , the symbiote concedes. _Two humans could never get as close as we are, but you want that –_ _this_.

Eddie gasps, his helmet dropping with a thud as the submerged part of it moves. It presses against his organs, making him aware of tissue and structures he knows are there, but has never seen, never felt. The sense of vulnerability is staggering and the thought enters his mind that symbiote could kill him like this. It would be so easy. Over in seconds. Just tighten its coils, flex until something ruptures.

 _Yes, Eddie_ , and he swears he can actually hear the words, as if growled into his ear. _You’re so soft inside, so easy to break. But we don’t want that. Just protect. Keep you safe._

He licks his lips. The symbiote isn’t restricting his range of motion, but he feels paralyzed nonetheless. Heat pulses in his face… and elsewhere.

“Dude, you need to—” his voice cracks “—need to stop. This is, um. This is—”

 _Making you hard?_ said in that deep, outside-inside rumble. Matter of fact. Like it’s stating the fucking time of day.

Eddie shudders. His eyes flutter shut. “V, please, you’ve got to… you’ve got to…”

He doesn’t know what he’s asking for anymore. He’s fully erect, hard and desperately aware of all the weeks he’s gone without relief.

 _We’re just talking to you, Eddie._ There’s an edge of impatience now, and it’s true. The symbiote is plastered to his neck and face, inside him like it always is, but it’s doing nothing to manipulate his arousal. The hardon in his jeans is entirely Eddie’s own.

 _You think we don’t know you feel this? We feel what you feel. But you won’t share this._ Perplexed, verging on insulted.

“It’s… it’s…” He’s is panting now, struggling to keep track of the conversation. “It’s _weird_ , V!”

Eddie feels a tightening inside him and something dark, not quite anger, bleeds into the onslaught of sensation.

 _Because we’re not_ — There’s a pause as the symbiote reaches some sort of resolution. _Because_ I’m _not human?_

The use the singular is unusual enough to jar some clarity back into Eddie. When he asked about its switch to first-person plural, it explained that, as a being accustomed to existing in a hive mind consciousness, the singular felt detached, cut off.

When they first met, its use of pronouns, language, even its name, was all for Eddie’s benefit, even if only to intimidate him better.

It’s trying to relate to him now, he realizes. Establish itself as an individual, distinct, yet more similar than different.

He swallows. “Do your people even have sex?”

A twinge of old aversion pangs along their shared nerves, dry and lifeless, flitting across Eddie’s awareness like dead leaves in the wind.

 _Not really,_ the symbiote confesses. _Not like humans. We can assimilate DNA from each other to adapt, gain abilities. It’s not pleasant for the… for the bottom?_ It sounds unsure and Eddie knows it found the word inside his head, trying to assign terminology to a concept that doesn’t exist in English. _But we can… commune. When we don’t have hosts. Merge without taking. Just share. Be._

There’s another pause, brief, but rife with meaning. _It’s frowned upon. Seen as weak._

Eddie feels a sense of expectation, urging him to understand.

“But you liked it?”

A low, purring vibration trembles through him, communicating assent.

The air congeals in Eddie’s throat. “With humans,” he’s whispering, but his voice feels loud, irrevocably revealing. “Men aren’t supposed to… I’m not supposed to want to… to—”

_Submit?_

A sound, caught between choking and sob, scrapes up from his chest. He’s dizzy again, overstimulated in more than just body. His legs tremble and he feels the symbiote sink into his limbs, holding him steady. More of its form bubbles onto his skin, spreading along his back. It stays under his clothes, undulating gently in what can only be called an embrace.

Eddie closes his eyes, nuzzling into the warm, living pressure on the side of his face. He feels safe, held in a way he’s never been before, but brittle, covered in a web of hairline cracks, as if the slightest pressure will cause him to break.

“It’s not you, V. Really, it’s… A lot of things have happened and I haven’t caught up to all of it yet, but I… I don’t _not_ want to,” he says, the admission scraping up his throat. “God, you have… you have no idea, but—” He blinks and his eyes are wet. “But sex complicates things, V. It can fuck us up really badly if we get it wrong and I can’t,” he shakes his head, “I can’t fuck it up with you. We’re _inside_ each other. We have to get this right, or… or—”

_Let’s go home, Eddie._

He shuts his mouth with a click and simply nods, abruptly exhausted. He finds his helmet and slips it on. He gets a leg over the bike and manages to push the key into the ignition. Right this moment, though, the apartment seems very far away.

Eddie hangs his head. “V, could you—”

Immediately, warm blackness flows from his hands, sticking to the bars _._ He feels more of it seeping through his jeans, anchoring him in place.

He turns the key. As the engine shudders to life, Eddie lets his eyes drift shut, entrusting his other with the journey home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nothing explicit happens, but the symbiote explains some cultural nuances that have elements of non-con. It's literally one line and not applicable to humans, but please be safe.


	7. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which V is a huge nerd and Eddie puts his cards on the table.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No real warnings for this chapter, but please see the end-note anyway for some spoilery rambles.
> 
> With tumblr in it's death-throws, please come talk to me on twitter @lingering_nomad. I had some [symbrock art](https://twitter.com/sabbasarts/status/1070597833517031424) commissioned that is very much in violation of tumblr anti-nipple policy, so if you're not too squeamish about mild gore and over the age of 18 (and you should be if you're reading this) check it out and support this artist! She is amazing.

The next few days pass by in a blur.

They don’t get a chance to stop and talk about what happened in the alley. As ever, the symbiote doesn’t push, picking up on Eddie’s need to let his feelings settle, but it doesn’t like uncertainty and Eddie can feel its impatience like an itch under his skin. It’s not that he’s trying to avoid the conversation, but other things keep getting in the way.

The police have yet to go public with the story of the bodies on the hill, but Miranda keeps asking for updates on Eddie’s “unofficial” investigation.

It makes his stomach churn. He’d rather not go for sensationalism on this one, but as Miranda keeps telling him, it doesn’t matter how credible the journalism is if nobody buys the fucking paper. Eddie just wants the whole thing over and done with. The actual killing took up less than an hour of his life and he’s not keen to spend the next however long reinventing it, but he doesn’t have the luxury of fumbling a scoop this huge either. There’s a limit on how many chances a guy in his mid-thirties gets to restart his career and a third strike in four years would be pushing it.

Besides, leading the coverage means controlling the spin, and in Eddie’s case, that could be the difference between a raise and the kind of trouble where incarceration is the most appealing prospect.

The obvious course is to put the “victims” on trial; turn the public’s attention toward the traffickers and their crimes, thus distracting from the horror of what happened to them. It’s what worked with Carlton Drake, but as strategies go, it isn’t risk free.

Eddie has already gathered all the evidence he could. Not the sort of dirt that would stick beyond a reasonable doubt in a court of law, but enough to appease his own conscience. All he had to work with were loose ends in Life Foundation financials, emails that didn’t make sense and a niggle in his gut. When the truth finally clicked, it was almost accidental.

He was zoning out, feeling the strain of the symbiote’s recovery. He’d consumed nearly his bodyweight in whey protein and omega acids, but even with his stomach filled to the point of discomfort, the hunger wouldn’t abate. He was smelling blood everywhere. Other people’s as well as his own, and it smelled damned delicious. Rich and warm and salty-sweet.

He’d slipped off his bracelets to stare at his wrist, watching the veins there twitch in time with his pulse, when the newsfeed serving as background noise cut to a report on trafficker fronts in the Bay Area: employment brokers, child care facilities and…

Travel agents.

Somehow, despite being near delirious from starvation – or maybe, _because_ of their pressing need for a meal – Eddie’s brain made the connection. Drake had done a decent job of keeping his own name out of anything dubious, but his assistant wasn’t as careful. It didn’t make sense for the founder-slash-CEO of a Forbes five-hundred multinational to handle his own travel, and as a rule, Drake didn’t, but emails from an obscure little agency in Sacramento kept reverting back to him. There was no itinerary or destination, no follow-up from Drake’s accounts – not the ones Eddie had hacked, anyway – but every few weeks a message would pop up that seemed like it was part of a larger conversation. Nothing truly incriminating. Just references to “our proposal” and “the meeting with our SF representatives,” without any context or documentation attached.

Eddie only noticed because of similar gaps in the “human trials” paperwork Dora Skirth had passed along. He knew what happened there, so when he saw the pattern repeated, he knew something was up. A look into the agency itself found it shut down and the owners missing, but a call to his guy in Seattle got him what he needed on the San Fran reps: Yves and Aurelie Boucher, a French-Canadian couple with a peculiar travel history and a personal email about moving to a house they couldn’t possibly afford.

If it was three months earlier, Eddie’s hasty B-and-E into their consulting office – suspiciously far from any touristy hubs – would have yielded only cheap furniture and dust, but luckily, he’d brought along a partner with a knack for finding hidden spaces. The safe was sealed behind a layer of fresh cement in the wall. Breaking it out and tearing it open left them trembling, with Eddie panting and sweating on the floor, but what he found inside was worth the effort: passports, personal effects, bank notes in currencies ranging from Haitian Gourde to Russian Rubles.

Young men, teenage girls, families with children…

Mindful of excess handling, Eddie bundled all of it together in a piece of loose canvas and stuffed it inside the plastic bag he’d brought with him. He still has it, tucked under his bed. Once they’d eaten, he was going to look for those people, try and find a way to help them, but with the police getting involved so much sooner than expected, he doesn’t know how to go about it without inviting questions he can’t answer.

He feels like he’s walking a tightrope, suspended between giving his boss enough to keep her impressed without revealing too much and, until he knows what the police have on file, he’s just guessing where the line is.

It’s seven a.m. on Friday morning when the suspense finally breaks. Miranda calls. The investigators are ready to go public, but they’d appreciate it if he could come down to the station and share some of his insights.

Translation: they’re hitting a wall and they don’t know how to tear it down without causing a panic.

If he was a suspect, it wouldn’t be his editor calling. There’d be a cop on his doorstep with a badge in his face. This is another lesson he learned the hard way, courtesy of the Life Foundation mess.

Relief rolls through Eddie like an avalanche as he agrees, taking down names and numbers, where he has to be and at what time.

It’s as he’s hovering over the toilet, cock in hand, willing his morning wood to go down so he can take a piss, that he’s bluntly reminded of his other conundrum.

 _You have memories of it going soft after you stroke it_.

Eddie nearly bites through his lip. “Uh, yeah, V. I know how my dick works, thanks.”

There’s a beat of loaded silence. _Then why don’t you stroke it?_

He swears he can sense an undercurrent of…something. The word “flirtatious” pokes at his mind, but he’s not quite ready to let it in. He rolls his tongue around the inside of his mouth as a prickly mix of awkwardness and exasperation burns up the back of his neck.

“I’m not feeling it right now,” he grits out, enunciating slowly. “Oh-kay? _”_

 _Feeling what?_ The voice in his head is utterly deadpan and he can’t tell if it’s being sincere.

Eddie gestures helplessly with the hand not directing his aim. “Sexy. In the mood. And anyway—” He stops short. He’s not sure what he meant to say, but the gist running through his head is that the first time they get off together, it won’t be while he’s standing over a toilet, with three-year-old briefs around his knees and the taste of his own morning breath in his mouth…which implies that there will be a first time.

The thought does nothing to alleviate his hard-on. Neither does the deep, knowing chuckle that rumbles through his guts.

It takes a good few minutes of unsexy thoughts, but Eddie finally manages to empty his bladder, shave and get dressed. All throughout, he can feel the symbiote’s focus on him, expectant. It wants to talk, wants to get this percolating tension out in the open, but from its perspective, this is literal alien territory. It’s up to Eddie’s intimacy-challenged ass to start the conversation, but once he does, what’s he going to say?

He knows V wants him to stop censoring his arousal. That much is obvious, but does it actually want to…participate?

The kiss in the woods rolls through his thoughts. Regardless of how it ended, it didn’t start with _Anne’s_ tongue in his mouth.

What Eddie’s not yet fully sure of, is why.

He didn’t think to question as it happened. He was near euphoric with relief, realizing that help had come and that his symbiote was okay. He wasn’t going to die alone in the dark, with a bullet in his brain and the guilt of yet one more person who could’ve mattered to him thinking that he didn’t care.

When he found himself hauled off his feet with the wet, probing slither of a decidedly inhuman appendage between his lips, he just…went with it. He opened up and it plunged inside, hitting the back of his throat and dissolving into his tissue before he could gag. Despite circumstances being what they were, the sensation thrilled him, more than a little.

His symbiote is already inside him, joined together in a way no other set of people can hope to be. What Eddie doesn’t know and can’t figure out how to ask, is whether it will reciprocate the emotions that sex will inevitably stir in him…

They don’t have to be at the station until ten, so he opts to actually cook them something for breakfast. V still isn’t the biggest fan of hot food, but since Eddie explained what salmonella is and that he can’t predict what Earth’s pathogens might do to alien biology, his copilot has become slightly more tolerant of his culinary skills.

It isn’t much help in the kitchen. Flavor combinations are a mystery when your species evolved to simply absorb nutrients directly, but it’s become pretty good at making coffee the way Eddie likes.

From the outside looking in, it would seem like a creepy combination of body-horror and domestic bliss, with Eddie breaking eggs and humming along to Errol Brown, while streaks of goo stretch from his person to rummage through the cupboards.

With his hands occupied and V’s focus directed elsewhere, Eddie finds the awkwardness of what he’s about to broach a smidge more bearable. “So, bud. Um, about earlier? I know we’ve been meaning to talk and we haven’t really had the chance, so uh. Yeah. You’ve been super patient this whole week – thanks for that, by the way. We’ve got some time now, though, so if there’s anything specific you want to, like, ask or—” A coffee mug appears in front of his face out of nowhere, startling him a little.

“Oh! Uh, thanks, man,” Eddie says, wiping egg white from his fingers so he can take it. He tastes and it’s good, but it’s not the flavor he expected.

He glances at a patch of darkness swirling idlily around his bicep. “Did you put cinnamon in this?”

_Yes. We saw it online. Do you like it?_

Eddie takes another sip. He’s a bit of a reverse coffee snob in the sense that he doesn’t like froufrou crap with his regular cuppa joe, but this isn’t half bad.

He smiles. “I do, yeah. Look at you, getting all experimental. Expanding our horizons.”

Black drips down his forearm, oozing over his bracelets and lower to twist around his fingers. It feels like having his hand clasped in someone else’s and Eddie’s smile softens as he squeezes back.

 _Anne did this for you._ The voice in his head is careful, skirting nervous.

Eddie’s smile wobbles. “V,” he starts, tentative, “is that why you make me coffee in the morning? Because it’s something Annie did?”

The darkness around his arm shifts up, then down – a nod. _She made you happy, Eddie. We want to make you happy too._

Eddie blinks. His lips part, but he has no idea what to say.

 _You’re afraid we’ll get it wrong,_ his symbiote goes on, _that we won’t understand._

He feels it move, sinking into his skin on one side, only to resurface on the other, as if it’s pacing.

 _And maybe..._ it hesitates, which it never does. _Maybe we won’t. But we want to learn, Eddie. We want to try. Besides,_ and there’s a hint of bravado there now, _you kissed us. Not Anne. Us. We’ve seen your thoughts._

Eddie huffs and sets the mug down on the counter. “I’m pretty sure you kissed _me_. Seriously, why did you do that?”

A shrug twitches through him. _Humans think about it a lot. We wanted to see what the fuss was about._

“And?”

 _We liked it. Your responses were_ … a weird, stretching sensation pangs in his belly – a smirk, Eddie realizes – _enlightening. You’ve never kissed a male before, but you think of us as one._

Eddie chokes on air. He’s trawling for a comeback when the symbiote follows with, _“Like men” is what you said, when we met._

“Y—you mean,” he licks his lips, “when you had me pinned against a building?”

There’s another rippling twitch, unapologetic. _You called us a parasite._

There’s no anger in his other’s voice now, no hurt and, Eddie realizes, no fear. Those were early days and his symbiote was as scared of him and his noisy, chaotic planet as he was of it. He knows that now, the memory oddly soft, considering how mind-blowingly disorienting the whole experience was while it was going down. “I can’t believe you remember that.”

 _We told you. You are ours—mine_ , it corrects, accentuating like it did on the buoy. It frightened the hell out of Eddie then, but right now, the heightened awareness spiraling through him, has nothing to do with fear _._ _And we like you, Eddie. We remember everything you say._

He stares at the egg-shell scattered counter, wondering if, _We like you,_ truly carries the enormity of implication he feels. “I know you’re not a guy, V.”

He doesn’t expect his symbiote to be anything it’s not. Gender is complicated for humans; Eddie knows that tall and muscled doesn’t necessarily mean “masculine,” but the feeling of invincibility that courses through him when V’s in control is what society has always told him a man should be.

_You like the thought of being with someone stronger. Someone who can…make you._

The symbiote has started up the soothing vibration that Eddie thinks of as purring, but the words make his eyes widen. “Nn—not for real!” he rushes to say, shaking his head. “That wouldn’t be fun, or sexy, or anything that isn’t really, really bad!”

 _Mhm,_ his other agrees. _Just a game._ It shows him a flash of the couple they saw in the alley and his own fumbling lecture on consent. _Nothing you don’t want_.

The discussion is beyond overwhelming, but Eddie’s dick is definitely taking an interest. He exhales, telling himself to think with the big head. “What do you get out of it?”

The symbiote laughs, booming pulses of mirth that throb in Eddie’s marrow, and he wonders if such a response is natural to its species or if it’s one more thing it picked up on Earth.

 _Oh, so much, Eddie_ , it says. _We share this body. You breathe for us. Your pulse is ours._ _We know you felt our hunger._

A pulling, dragging pressure coalesces inside him. It swells against his skin and Eddie gasps, stumbling back from the counter. It doesn’t hurt, not exactly. But for an excruciating second, it feels like his chest and abdomen are going to split open. A mass of blackness writhes into being, solidifying into pearlescent eyes, staring him down over rows of bone-snapping teeth that he’s felt inside his own mouth.

That pupil-less gaze should seem empty, but as it peers down at him, its stare is sharper than its fangs. “…Your cravings are no different,” it says aloud and Eddie flinches, unused to hearing that sibilant growl out in the open.

“It’s why the collective has so many rules about hosts,” the symbiote continues. “My people thrive on conquest, Eddie. It is believed that we cannot survive without it. We’re supposed to subdue our hosts – first, break their will and then, their bodies. We’re meant to cause you pain and withstand it. The superiors call it _strength_ , but…” A smear of blackness crawls up Eddie’s face, molding into fingers. A palm cups his jaw as talons as long and sharp as knives prick against his scalp, “we think they’re wrong.”

“That’s good. Good to know,” Eddie manages, a little breathless, awed by the physicality of his other and trying not to freak out at the frank mention of genocidal intent that brought it here.

Dazed, he seeks something to lean against, only to find his legs steadied from within and an arm like warm concrete circling his back.

 A huge, clawed thumb strokes across his cheek. “We’ve never been brought on a mission before,” the symbiote admits, “but we know from collective memory that humans are not like other races we’ve encountered. The old approach might have served us in the past, but here on Earth, those who followed protocol—” Eddie feels its twitching shrug inside him; watches it echo in the massive shoulder in front of his face. “We survived because we broke the rules. Statistically, cooperation with humans yields better results.”

Eddie’s brows arch. “Statistically,” he parrots, dryly. “Wow, V, way to make a guy feel special.”

The symbiote leans in close, flicks the tip of its tongue against his cheek.

It’s weird, incredibly weird, but Eddie can feel the affection behind it. He’s laughing as he leans away. “Gross, man!” he complains without heat, wiping drool on the back of his hand.

The symbiote starts purring again and Eddie lets his hands settle on the slabs of its shoulders, squeezing the chord and shift of what feels exactly like muscle.

He bites his lip and looks up through his lashes.

He doesn’t know if this counts as flirting. He’s never tried from this angle before; never been held by a partner so much taller that he had to look up to meet their gaze. It’s a little mortifying, but there’s something defiant about it too, exciting and oddly…powerful.

The symbiote’s hands are on his waist. “You misunderstand,” it says, still vibrating softly. “Even with perfect symbiosis, the odds of us – an unranked lesser – defeating a superior at Riot’s level were nonexistent. Zero, Eddie. That was not an exaggeration. We shouldn’t have lived. If you’d made us waste energy overriding you, we wouldn’t have. But you _didn’t_. You let us stay, you helped us learn. When we were weak, you let us heal. No other being would have done that for us. Not on this world, not where we came from. We don’t want to hurt you, not ever, but…” Those huge hands stroke up his sides and Eddie arches impossibly closer, “giving you what you want? What no human has, just by taking control?”

The symbiote’s face doesn’t change, but Eddie can feel it grinning, low in his gut. “We like that. We like it a lot.”

Eddie is breathing hard. He’s had a load of truth dropped on him that he will obsess over later, but as for right now—“Well, for what it’s worth,” he says weakly, “I think you’re a lot prettier than Riot.”

V’s eyes narrow. There’s nothing human in the expression, but Eddie feels like he’s being looked at as if he just sprouted a second head, which, technically…

“Some of what you value makes absolutely no sense. We think it’s important that you know this.”

Eddie laughs, thick and husky. “Yeah? So, how should I compliment you, then?

“Strength,” the symbiote says, not missing a beat. “Power. Tell us how scary we are.”

Eddie laughs a little louder. “You’re absolutely horrifying, babe.” The endearment is part of the tease, but it feels good in his mouth.

His other stares at him. It’s all fangs and eyes and smooth, obsidian black, but there’s something undeniably familiar in the way it tilts its head, the way the tip of its tongue flits across its teeth. Not predatory or menacing, just… considering, almost innocent.

“Can we kiss you again?”

Eddie’s sorely neglected cock throbs. He licks his lips. “I’m going to be very upset if you don’t.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies to everyone expecting pr0n. They were supposed to fuck, but it was getting long, so I'm afraid that's still coming (and depending on the results of my highly scientific [twitter poll](https://twitter.com/lingering_nomad/status/1071336585910779905) so will Eddie... or not xP).


	8. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Eddie gets wrecked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please see end-note for chapter specific warnings.

Anticipation settles, warm and heady, like a shot of good liquor in his belly. Eddie waits to be grabbed and filled, like in the woods, but that’s not how it goes down.

His other can sense his need, but it doesn’t share his urgency. So, instead of the near assault he’s expecting – and yes, a little eager for – Eddie finds himself being… explored.

One of those death-dealing hands is back on his face, thumb tracing his bottom lip as alien eyes stare, cataloguing. The digit sticks to his skin, stretching slightly as it moves and it hits him: his other’s form isn’t entirely solid, because— because maintaining shape takes effort, and right now, the bulk of its formidable focus is centered on him.

It’s a strangely humbling thought and something deeper than arousal twists in Eddie’s chest.

A web of tendrils is spreading under his clothes. Over his back, winding up his legs, tracing the edges of his pectorals. He’s had his whole body invaded, engulfed and altered to varying degrees; has an actual torso currently pouring out of his abdomen, so this relatively superficial contact shouldn’t feel special, yet it’s unlike anything that has passed between them before. His other has touched him to express itself, to stir a response, but this? It’s not just mimicking now. It _likes_ this; likes that _he_ likes it. Like – _Oh God,_ Eddie thinks – like a lover would.

“Anne thinks you’re pretty,” the symbiote comments, still staring at his mouth. “Especially here.” The edge of a claw scrapes across the skin that thumb just traversed and Eddie makes a sound that he refuses to categorize as a mewl.

“Han-handsome, you mean?” he corrects, trying to scrounge up the brain function to transmit the nuance in meaning.

The symbiote’s stare doesn’t really shift, but Eddie feels its regard move from his lips to his eyes. Its head shakes minutely, “No.” A thread of drool drips from its teeth as it leans closer. “We think we agree with her assessment.”

Seeing teeth and drool so close evokes an expectation of dog breath in his face, but the symbiote doesn’t actually breathe and the scent coming from its body is perhaps the most overtly human thing about it. A little musky, a little balmy, and somehow, very, very male to Eddie’s senses. It’s probably down to where it lives, a result of the hormones and pheromones it’s absorbing from him – and maybe, something residual from their meal. Whatever the science, that scent is going straight to Eddie’s dick.

It’s not just weird. It’s grotesquely, mind-alteringly bizarre, yet there’s no denying that he can get off on that aspect alone. Eddie Brock is apparently more of a freak than he ever realized and, as his other tilts its head and the tip of its tongue teases the seam of his lips, he’s profoundly glad for the revelation.

He opens up and that tongue licks into him, oh so excruciatingly careful.

Eddie groans, eyes rolling closed. He hooks an arm around its neck and presses in, lapping hungrily at the invasion. He’s dimly aware of sweat trickling down his spine, of his hips rocking against empty air, seeking friction. He’s so fucking hard and it’s been so, so fucking long. He needs— God, please, he just needs—  

He senses the symbiote’s interest, merging with his own desperate arousal; feels it nudging at his mind, asking for clues. _What do you want?_

It’s like opening a floodgate, decades of repressed desire comes pouring out. And it doesn’t stop at kissing.

The response from his other is immediate and, in true symbiote style, extreme. There’s no restraint, no indecision.

It sees and it acts.

Eddie’s eyes fly open as the tongue in his mouth thickens, forcing his teeth apart until he feels a twinge in his jaw. The undulating muscle doesn’t push into his throat. He can breathe, but barely. It’s just this side of too much. Moisture gathers at the edges of his vision and his cock throbs, leaking into his underwear. There’s a clawed hand cradling the back of his head and another on his ass, squeezing and kneading through his jeans, even as something viscous and agile slithers into his crack.

His hips stutter.

He used to love it when Anne played with his hole, was secretly thrilled that he found a girlfriend willing to touch him there, but even with Annie, he never let her see just how much it turned him on. The first time she offered to put her fingers inside him, he feigned reluctance, let her believe that he needed coaxing, because what would she think if he seemed too eager?

It was stupid.

He knew that even when they were together, but it was always hard to bring these parts of himself – the ones his father would pick at until they bled – out in the open. Maybe if they’d gotten married, maybe then he would have worked up the nerve to finally be honest with her, but they didn’t.

Instead, Eddie has _this_.

There’s no hiding from or lying to his current partner.

Within moments, his mouth is overflowing with a mix of his own saliva and alien drool, leaking out the corners of his lips, dripping down his chin. It’s swallow or drown and Eddie chooses, feeling the thick liquid slide down his throat.

It’s like the best, nastiest porno he’s ever seen, amplified by a thousand.

He sucks automatically, tongue sliding around the girth in his mouth as rippling, swirling friction laves at his hole. It prods before circling again, like he always imagined a rimjob would feel. Even as he thinks it, the texture changes, becoming wetter, firmer… knobbier? He feels something warm and slimy dribble down the inside of his thighs and in the same instant, an image forms in his head: tongues – oh God, _plural_ – twisting into him. One at each end. Fucking him open.

A moan spams up his throat. Eddie tries to arch into the wriggling pressure, to spread his legs and beg with his body, but he can only move as his symbiote allows and it doesn’t let him.

There’s the thrum of suggestion. He has to want it, has to _ask_.

His vision blurs and he realizes it’s tears. He can’t tell if he’s crying or if it’s simply reflex. At this point, he doesn’t care.

 _Please!_ he thinks. _Please, please!_

The wet circling doesn’t stop. A whine tears loose from his guts. He’s struggling to focus through the blinding need, to form words and beg again, when that tongue finally, _finally_ begins to push inside.  He can’t judge dimensions, but it feels huge as it presses slowly, inexorably into him. Every inch or so, it pulls out to lick at his rim, slicking him anew as it dips back in. He’s shaking, half-coking, overwhelmed and still wanting more. There’s a tickling sensation as small, careful streaks quest along his taint, swimming through the flood of drool running down his legs. They reach his shaft, wind around the length, incongruously tender as they find his foreskin and start sliding it back and forth across his glans, teasing yet more fluid from the tip.

Through it all, Eddie registers tendrils curling around his nipples, flicking and twisting. He’s not even sure when that started as the pleasure gushes through him, just one more eddy in the torrent.

Sweat drips into his eyes, spots dance in his vision – whether from lack of air or overstimulation is a tossup.

Somewhere in the lust-fogged haze, he knows that he’s standing fully clothed in the middle of his kitchen, that it’s just him and his symbiote, but to the rest of his senses this feels like an orgy. Like he’s being consumed.

Instincts clash, half-formed bursts of panic-desire that might have evolved into _slow down_ and _don’t stop_ if he had any synapses to spare, but all Eddie can do, is hold on to the dark mass in front of him, and feel _._

Time blurs, reality grows fuzzy around the edges. He has no idea how long it lasts, if it’s over in seconds or minutes. With the same expected suddenness that started all this, Eddie feels his orgasm rushing up, fast and huge. He’s on the precipice, muscles seizing, blood rushing in his ears, when—

_Ed—Eddie?! What, what’s—?!_

In a moment of sharp, frantic clarity, he senses his symbiote trying to pull him back from the edge, trying to stop that crash of sensation. If his mouth wasn’t full, Eddie would have screamed.

_No, no, please! Let it happen, let it happen!_

And then, it does.

It hits like a truck – and Eddie knows how that feels. His other’s form implodes, liquifying around and into him. The shift in equilibrium throws off his balance and he collapses with it, convulsing as he rides out the sensory feedback of both their experience.

It’s intense; it’s a lot. Eddie is pretty sure he blacks out for a second. When his eyes flutter open, he registers the chorus to Fatboy Slim’s “Praise You” crooning from the laptop and the floor digging into his shoulder and hip. His symbiote is sliding over him, dripping and flowing, like warm silk. There’s a taste like salt and sunshine at the back of his throat. Flashes of turquoise and yellow swirl through his mind as soft, lilting bursts of percussion reverberate in his belly.

 _Good Eddie. Never knew. Never told,_ it purrs in his head, slipping into the verbal economy it uses when particularly relaxed.

Eddie gulps air into his burning lungs, his muscles watery with fatigue. The floor feels extra hard as he rolls onto his back and slings an arm across his eyes.

He feels boneless, wrung out.

If he’s ever been this wrecked in his life, Eddie can’t remember it now. His face is tacky with spit and drool. His shirt and jeans are drenched with it. His underwear is a wet straightjacket around his dully aching cock and balls as rapidly cooling slime squelches along his perineum, yet more of it seeping out of his twitching asshole to pool between his cheeks.

He needs to get up, take a shower and change, but there’s nothing he’d like more than to doze off right where he is.

_More, Eddie. Want more?_

A laugh bubbles up from his core, incredulous but content. “Fuck, V,” he rasps, throat raw. “I… I…” He has to concentrate to line up the words he needs. His nerves keep feeding him jolts of pleasure, like an orgasm with aftershocks, derailing his train of thought. “I _do_ , but—” the admission surprises him a little, given the state he’s in. “But we have to go to the police station in an hour and. And I can’t… can’t be all fucked out when we talk to the cops, but—”

 _After,_ his symbiote finishes for him.

Eddie nods where he lies. “Yeah, baby,” he says, tongue circling his swollen lips. “After.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nothing major. It's all fund and good, but I'm marking this down as RACK (risk aware consensual kink) because Eddie agreed to have sex with an amorphous alien who doesn't necessarily understand how sex, culture and emotions intersect for humans. Eddie, specifically, is okay with this level of risk. If his boundaries get pushed, he has the life experience and emotional resilience to cope with it. He also knows that if he gets genuinely distressed, V will sense it and stop, because it's an alien and it can literally read his mind. Humans don't work like that, so if you're doing freaky sexy times with an actual person, please have a more thorough discussion than these two did *gets off soap box.*
> 
> Also, apologies to everyone who voted for Ed not to come, but as I said in my twitter rant, the man has been celibate for ten weeks. Subjecting him to an overeager symby and having him not come is just unscientific.


	9. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which feels are caught and Eddie lies through his teeth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Holidays, everyone! Slightly edited the smut scene from the last chapter, because I was inspired by [ShaakTisTardis'](https://twitter.com/ShaakTisTardis/media) amazing art on twitter. Check out their stuff.
> 
> No warnings for this one. Just want to say a huge thank you for all the feedback and encouragement. I am way behind on replies, but that's honestly because I'm spending every spare second working on this fic. I am so, so grateful to be part of this fandom. I haven't enjoyed writing anything this much in ages. I love this pairing so much and I love all of you for letting me share this story with you <3

The symbiote recovers faster than he does and it’s with V’s help that Eddie manages to haul himself up off the floor. He finishes his coffee – now cold – to soothe his throat and lets his other steer them into the bathroom.

He doesn’t know if he’ll ever get used to the total passivity of being a passenger inside his own flesh, watching his limbs move without his input as his arm reaches to turn the water on. He closes his eyes, lets himself drift. His soiled clothes peel away in a coordinated effort between alien biomatter and hands that aren’t quite his, legs propelling him forward until the spray hits his skin. He stands docilely, caught between a half doze and fascination at the web of black cords that seethe and slip along his body. Some flow outward to anchor him to the wall, while others slather soap across his chest.

A tendril pauses to trace the lines of a tattoo as if only just noticing the ink. One drags lightly across his nipple and Eddie swallows thickly.

He doesn’t really need this level of direction. He’s tired and a little floaty, but he’s perfectly capable of cleaning himself.

His ability isn’t in question, however.

There’s a warm, protective sort of ownership flowing from his other. It _wants_ to do this, wants to take care of him and, coddling or not, it’s been a long time since he’s had any kind of TLC and this feels too nice to resist.

 _Got you, Eddie,_ his symbiote says, moving over and around him. As one thick appendage strokes the suds from his back, another slides between his legs, exquisitely gentle as it cleans him there. His flesh stirs and a sigh shakes loose from his lungs. Theses touches aren’t meant to entice, but the intimacy is no less staggering than the sex.

 _Love you, V,_ Eddie hears himself thinking, drunk on a surge of emotion. The words coat his tongue, shape between his lips, but the magnitude of the declaration catches up and breaks through the haze before he can speak. He swallows it down, bitter and sharp.

His symbiote has been purring since the kitchen and the dulcet vibrations don’t falter. From the corner of his eye, Eddie sees a lone tendril reach for the shampoo. He feels strands, like fingers, spread across his scalp; watches as a dark band loops around his thigh for no discernable reason other than to touch him.

A lack of response doesn’t mean his stray thought went unnoticed. The meaning could’ve been lost in translation, or V might simply be ignoring the latest flareup from its host’s minefield of neuroses. Either way, Eddie’s not about to ask.

The afterglow of mind-blowing sex is not the time for heart-felt confessions. What if it’s just the oxytocin talking?

Yet, even as he thinks it, he knows that isn’t the case.

This is exactly what he was afraid of; the whole reason he was holding out. Men are supposed to be able to fuck without getting all emo about it after, but Eddie’s never been good at staying detached.

“Like a goddamn lost puppy,” was a comparison he heard a lot.

Hell, even his symbiote called it: _Never fought us, Eddie; wanted to be claimed._

Douchey of him, to think for even a second that V’s nature would keep his stupid, clingy heart from getting involved, yet here he is, falling for the alien that crawls through his veins. If he’s being honest, he’s felt this shit creeping up on him for a while. He just didn’t let himself see it, until now.

And really, what’s not to love?

Sure, they’re not exactly a “traditional” couple, but this being that lives inside him is as sweet and strong as any human Eddie knows, and braver than even he can fathom. It turned on everything it knew to be with him, was prepared to die to save his life. V doesn’t let him get away with his usual self-destructive nonsense, but it hasn’t tried to change him either. For the last two and a half months, Eddie’s been more at peace with himself than he ever knew how to be, but…

Annie stuck by him for years.

If that breakup taught him anything, it’s to never underestimate his talent for ruining what he values the most.

They stay under the spray for a while longer, until his symbiote closes the faucet and draws back the curtain. By the time he’s dressed and presentable, they’re running late and the makings of their omelet have to go back in the fridge. A year ago, Eddie would have dumped the raw eggs down the drain, but six months without pay would turn anyone frugal.

They take public transit so he doesn’t have to lug the helmet around. They’re only six minutes late, but the lead investigator is already waiting in the receiving area when they arrive.

Detective Luther Donovan cuts an imposing figure. He’s pushing sixty, but his silvered hair contrasts with his dark brown skin in a way makes him seem distinguished rather than old. He’s tall too, well over six-feet. His suit looks tailored and he’s in pretty good shape. Not a beer gut in sight, stirring a frisson of self-consciousness at the softening around Eddie’s middle, left over from his depression binges.

They exchange brusque pleasantries over a firmly macho handshake and then Eddie’s trailing after the man into the station house in silence. Miranda never revealed who her contact was, but the detective seems curiously unsurprised that a member of the press has been looking into his case.

They stop in front of an interview room and Donovan holds the door.

Eddie schools his features and steps inside, ignoring the awful surge of déjà vu. It was a different precinct, different people, but the churning in his gut feels the same. When he was just released from the hospital and the authorities were looking for someone to blame, he spent a good chunk of his days in impersonal, windowless little rooms, just like this one.

Back then, V was too weak to react to his moods, but Eddie feels it now, bristling as his nerves ratchet up.

 _It’s okay, sweetheart,_ he thinks at it, the endearment merging naturally into his thoughts. _I got this. Everything’s going to be fine._

As he takes a seat, Eddie reminds himself that he’s here as a consultant. One professional to another. As long as he keeps his cool and plays his cards right, they have nothing to worry about.

“Your boss and I go way back, Mr Brock,” Donovan says as the door clicks shut, all but confirming Eddie’s assumption about where Miranda got her tipoff. “She’s one of the few people in your field who lasted more than five minutes with her integrity in tact – no offense,” he adds, though his tone implies the opposite. “She speaks highly of you, though. Said you have some interesting theories.”

The detective hasn’t moved from the door, forcing Eddie’s gaze up. He finally takes a step away and pulls out the chair across from him.

Once seated, Donovan links his fingers on the table and looks Eddie in the eye like he’s daring him to blink. “You think this might be linked to trafficking. Why?”

Show time.

Eddie shrugs, bracelets rustling as he gestures. “I stumbled onto some leads that would fit that scenario. Nothing concrete enough to rule anything out.”

“What leads?” Donovan presses.

“Well,” Eddie says, leaning forward like they’re sharing secrets. “That house where all this went down, right? It’s listed as corporate property. No record of anyone living there. Yet, one morning you guys get a call and there’s five dead bodies.”

“Seven,” Donovan corrects.

Eddie lets his eyes widen. “Whoa, that’s even worse.”

Donovan huffs, impatient. “We know about the house, Mr Brock. It’s registered to Wavepoint Technologies. It’s a subsidiary of the Life Foundation.”

Eddie sits straighter. “Shit, for real?” He knew Drake was meeting with these people, but if he was using company funds to set up safehouses for traffickers—

The detective says nothing, just keeps staring with that expression that could moonlight as a brick wall.

Of course.

He’s here to help the cops do their job, not the other way around.

Curbing his enthusiasm, Eddie sits back and crosses his arms. “Sorry to disappoint, Detective,” and he even means it a little, “but I don’t have any facts beyond what my editor shared, which is the location of the crime scene and that a bunch of people died there. It’s my job to speculate and build a narrative. Like you said, I have some theories, but that’s all they are at this point.” He puts on his helpful face. “If you like, I could take you through the thought process? Who knows, maybe something rings a bell.”

Donovan eyes him skeptically, then gives a nod.

Eddie nods back, smiling as he bends forward again. “Way I see it, you’re not dealing with a random act here. It’s possible, but unlikely. Shit like this happens in the rich part of town, there’s usually a reason. Odds are someone’s cheating, either with money or with sex.” He pauses for impact, watching Donovan’s response. The man seems to be listening, at least.

“Since you have seven hacked up victims,” Eddie goes on, “I think we can rule out the jealous-ex-on-a-rampage angle. That leaves money, probably the dirty kind. Could be drugs, could be embezzlement, could be anything. But according to official stats, the current most lucrative criminal venture in this fair state, is selling people. _The new crack cocaine_ , is what they’re calling it. Hence—” Eddie concludes with a shrug.

Donovan scowls, but he doesn’t tell him to piss off. “You’re not as dumb as you look, Brock.”

Eddie grins. “Better than looking smarter than you are.”

Donovan’s lips purse, eyes narrowing, but he lets it slide. “Are you aware that parts of the bodies are missing?”

“Uh,” Eddie shifts in his seat. “I think Miranda mentioned heads?”

“Not just heads. It—” And for the first time, Donovan’s composure wobbles. His eyes go blank for a second, complexion tinging slightly gray. “It looks like they were,” he swallows audibly. “Eaten. It looks like something _ate_ them.”

The burst of gut-clenching horror is more genuine than he would have liked. Eddie knew this was coming. No way forensics would miss the work of Venom’s teeth and claws, but hearing Donovan say it out loud feels like a threat. The room is suddenly very small and he has to concentrate on keeping his breathing even.

“Oh. Wow, that’s… I mean, how long were they dead for? There are cayotes and mountain lions in the woods around Kentfield, maybe—”

Donovan doesn’t let him finish. “No cayote or mountain lion did _that_ , Brock! There are no tracks, no obvious point of entry. We found an arsenal of weapons stashed all over the damn place, but not a single shot fired. We’re waiting on results from the lab, but…”

The detective seems to have forgotten that he’s not supposed to share details of an open case with a reporter as he rattles off a list of evidence that rules out animals and people both, but doesn’t offer any clues as who – or _what_ – might be responsible.

As for Eddie, it’s all he can do to keep the relief off his face.

 _Now aren’t you glad we stuck to the paving?_ he thinks at his other, remembering their brief struggle for control as his symbiote strained to tear across the lawn and break down a door, while Eddie insisted on stealth.

V doesn’t make a sound, but Eddie feels a pulse of grudging concession.

The detective is mistaken, though. They definitely left tracks out in the woods – tracks that change from huge and clawed to men’s size-eleven converse about a quarter-mile from the road.

The symbiote kept him insulated as they killed and ate, but as an added precaution, Eddie burned everything he had on after they came home from their meetings with Miranda and Anne. He even changed the tires on his bike.

He took every precaution he could think of, left his phone in the apartment as they hunted, taped his license plate before they left. He would ditch the motorcycle altogether, but that would leave him without transport and maybe stir more suspicion than it deflects.

Eddie can only hope he did enough.

He loses focus for a moment. When he comes back to the present, he finds Donovan watching him, head cocked to the side.

“You know, Brock,” the detective says – haltingly, like he can’t quite make himself believe what he’s about to divulge. “My son-in-law’s on SWAT. Says he heard a rumor about you.”

Eddie’s heart thumps in his throat. “Oh?”

Donovan nods. “Some of his teammates got called out the night all that went down with the Life Foundation. They’re saying they saw… that you—” He vacillates, visibly fighting his own incredulity “—changed.”

The word is gruff, gravel on sand, like it hurt his throat on the way up.

Eddie feels V slide between his lungs, nestling close to his heart. It’s not quite purring. The feint vibration is too low to produce even the impression of sound, but the soft quivering helps. It’s not just his life that’s at stake here.

Eddie exhales slowly, meeting the older man’s gaze head-on. He’s deathly calm when he speaks, “I know what they think they saw, Detective. I was questioned by your colleagues down by the harbor and I told them what happened. Those men were hallucinating. It wasn’t real. They freaked out and attacked each other. I’m sorry it went down like that, but they were going to shoot me and not answer any questions. It was self-defense.”

Donovan stares at him, his unease plain. This is not a man who is easily frazzled. Eddie doesn’t doubt that the good detective can handle ordinary atrocities, like drive-by shootings and spousal abuse, without batting an eye, but this is something else.

“So you just admit to deploying experimental weapons against officers doing their job?”

Donovan sounds indigent, though more bolstered than vengeful. Eddie can’t say he blames him. He used to live in the real world too and he knows how these accounts must sound to someone who hasn’t lived it. For a man like Luther Donovan, the world is easier to deal with when he can pretend the darkness doesn’t stare back.

Eddie lets his shoulders slump, trying to seem as non-threatening as possible. He puts his hands on the table, open in apology. “I’m not proud of it, Detective Donovan, but I really had no choice. I’m just a guy who was trying to do the right thing. You don’t have to agree with my methods, but I risked my life to expose what Carlton Drake was inflicting on people, and I’d do it again if it means no one else will be used like that.” He draws a breath, squares his shoulders and looks the detective in the eye. “Now, I can leave and let you get back to work, or you can level with me and maybe I can help you figure out what went down in that house.”

Turns out that’s the right thing to say.

Not much changes about Donovan’s bearing, but some of the tension seeps from his shoulders. He  doesn’t confirm or deny anything directly, but he offers up a few “scenarios” that link back to the Life Foundation and possible motives for “cleaning house,” as he puts it.

Eddie listens attentively and drops a few breadcrumbs of his own, careful not to let anything slip that he shouldn’t be privy to.

An hour later, Donovan seems placated as well as intrigued. Eddie can’t divine how his vics ended up with their insides on the outside, but he can shed some light on other aspects of the case, like the ostensible lack of connections between the deceased and why they would need a weapons stash to begin with. When he ties it all together with what he knows of Drake’s backdoor dealings and human experimentation, the last of the detective’s misgivings seem to melt away.

“I don’t typically do this, Brock,” Donovan says, side-eyeing him, “but we’re getting nowhere and if this gets leaked—” He gives Eddie a stern look. “You can imagine the fallout if the public imagination is left to run with this unchecked. The shots Miranda got were randoms; unprocessed. If you’re willing, I’d appreciate it if you could take a look at the scene photos with the CSI. If this really does trace back to the Life Foundation, maybe you can spot something we’re missing.”

Eddie isn’t especially eager to look at the crime scene again, but he can’t think of a reasonable excuse for refusing.

Donovan doesn’t smile, but as he hands Eddie a card with Investigator Ling’s particulars and the address for the crime lab on it, his handshake is less crushing than before. 

V stays quiet until they’re out of the station. As Eddie plops himself down on a bench to wait for the bus, he feels the tell-tale pulling on his skin as a glob of symbiote wraps around his hand.

 _Did good, Eddie,_ it says, squeezing gently. The deep, disembodied bass shudders through him like the revving of a muscle car, carried on a swell of approval that settles, sweet and easy, in his bones.

“Thanks, baby,” Eddie replies, grinning like an idiot as warmth rushes to his face.


	10. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Eddie gets crash course in symbiote kink.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big, huge, glaring warnings for this one. If you were never into hard kylux or hannigram, please, please read the end-note. Seriously, this is the chapter that is either going to make this your favourite symbrock fic, or send you running for hills. They're still their adorkable selves, don't worry, but this is where my niche kinks come into play ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> Again, thank you all so much for the comments and general positivity. It gives me so much hope for 2019. We'll see if I can squeeze out another update before January, but if not, Happy New Year!! :D

The message from Donovan arrives before his bus does: he can head straight to the lab. CSI Ling will be waiting to take him through the scene.

Eddie’s lip curls. He was going to make the call on Monday, give himself the weekend to process the exchange with the detective and get his head screwed on straight for the next round.

So much for the one-step-at-a-time approach.

“Dude doesn’t let grass grow, does he,” Eddie mumbles as he sends the detective a professionally courteous thank-you, followed by a quick ETA to the investigator to let her know when to expect him. He checks the time. The lab is on the same route he was planning to take, though he has to get off at a different stop and change busses to get to Bryant Street. Half an hour if the bus he’s waiting for isn’t late.

 _Might as well get it over with_ , _Eddie,_ V growls from the vicinity of his solar plexus.

It takes him a second to place the disappointment rolling off his other, aided by a rather unambiguous visual that has Eddie blushing and cursing under his breath.

* * *

 

“… hope you can be of assistance, Mr Brock. Now, I’m afraid you’ll have to excuse me. I have another meeting to attend, but Miss Mcallister will take you through what we have of the scene.”

Head CSI Ling spares him a tight smile, before rising from the conference chair, leaving Eddie in the company of aforementioned Miss Mcalister.

The senior of the two women is exactly what Eddie expected: bespectacled and reserved with an aura of a calm authority. Her subordinate on the other hand—

“It’s really nice to meet you. I used to watch your show with my mom. You can call me Amy if you want.”

The junior CSI is practically bouncing in her seat. She’s blonde, bright-eyed and younger than Eddie would have expected anyone working this case to be, given the sheer bloody horror of it all. After Donovan’s hostility and Ling’s almost aloof formality, her exuberance catches him off guard.

“Uh, okay,” Eddie says, blinking as she beams at him.

While _The Brock Report_ was running, getting recognized on the street was a fairly regular occurrence, but any celebrity Eddie might’ve had was minor and he certainly didn’t expect it to endure for the eight months since his show last aired. After the cops cleared him, he did one TV interview for his old network as a favor to Nick, his former boss, but for the most part, Eddie’s name and face have faded into obscurity.

It occurs to him that Miss Mcalister could simply be suffering from a caffeine overdose. He spotted more than one percolator on the way to the conference room. No reason to assume a women who’s smart and tough enough to work in a crime lab would be into Eddie’s scruffy, has-been ass.

The thought has barely formed when he feels the sliding compression around his lungs that signals a sigh from his symbiote.

 _We really hate it when you think of yourself like this, you know. It’s insulting to_ us _. And from what we know of human standards, your ass is better than most._

Eddie’s not sure what passes across his face, but whatever it is has Miss Mcalister leaning slightly back in her chair. He dredges up a weak smile. “Uh, is there somewhere we should go, or…?”

“Oh right!” she replies, as if the reason for Eddie’s presence slipped her mind. “Please, come with me.”

As they walk through the lab, Eddie’s attention shifts inward.

 _Thanks, dear,_ and the sarcasm is mostly real, _but I actually do need to pass for normal right now, can you please not make me act like a weirdo?_

A chuckle echoes in his belly. _We don’t make you do anything, Ed. The weirdness is all on you._

Eddie’s retaliation is a flash of himself, chest-deep in a lobster tank, masticating a live crustacean.

There’s a pregnant silence as his symbiote squirms. _We will not apologize for that. We were hungry. We tried to tell you._

Eddie’s reply is forestalled as Miss Mcalister stops in front of a set of sliding doors that open into what looks like mission control at NASA. Eddie has been poking around illegal and generally unsavory dealings for the better part of his adult life, but he’s never been this close to the official side of an investigation as it was being conducted.

A frisson of real excitement unspools and with it, a twinge of regret that he can’t actually help to catch this killer.

There will be others, though.

Real dangers to society, who need to be taken off the streets. And, should official channels fail as they often do, he and V will be more than happy to lend justice some teeth.

The grin stretching his cheeks is a little too wide and not solely his as Eddie absorbs the computers and other lab tech lining the walls. There’s a table and chairs in the middle of the space, covered in notes and takeout napkins, with an expensive-looking laptop screen rising from the detritus. Miss Mcalister takes a seat behind it and Eddie sits down next to her.

As she keys in the required clearance codes, her zeal comes back, and Eddie finds himself quickly disabused of any obliviousness he might’ve clung to regarding the poor woman’s motives.

“So… Eddie. Do you mind if I call you Eddie?” She laughs as if he said something funny and forges ahead without waiting for a response. “Are you seeing anyone? I mean, you’re wearing a whole bunch of rings, but not…" she motions with her left hand.

…. _on the ring finger_.

Eddie’s stomach drops.

He has no problem being a douche to billionaires and their hired thugs – people too used to others jumping when their fingers snap – but when it comes to the homeless, harassed convenience store owners and apparently, socially awkward sciencey types, Eddie’s kind of a pushover. He hates letting nice people down, especially when he doesn’t know them well and has no immediate means of escape. “Uh, well. You see. The thing is—” He reaches up to rub the back of his neck, but he’s thwarted mid-motion.

His palm slaps down on the table with enough force to jolt the nearest papers. He’d stare at it in mortified horror, but his eyes are boring into Miss Macalister’s as his lips start to move.

“Yes. He is,” he hears his own voice saying, pitched slightly lower than usual.

Control is restored as abruptly as it was taken, and Eddie clears his throat. “ _I… I_ am,” he corrects calmly, as if referring to yourself in the third-person is a common slip of the tongue that everyone makes. “Seeing someone, that is.”

Miss Mcalister handles it as well as can be expected. Her smile sits frozen as a look of bewilderment flits across her face. Mercifully, the computer chimes and she turns toward it, calling up the case folder.

There are a lot of before-and-afters in Eddie’s life. Meeting V counts as the most significant watershed of his existence, but the day he got on his bike and rode out to that house, was a Rubicon in own right.

The photos begin in the gardens, showing markers next to every stray bit of debris and disturbed foliage the investigators could find.

Eddie leans closer, mapping out the path they took. There are fine, hairline cracks in flagstones of the garden trail where they landed after crossing the electric fence in a single bound. The path was made to look rustic and, if the investigators noticed, they didn’t consider the damage worthy of a marker.

He remembers the heady surge of Venom’s power; the smooth fluidity of their motions.

They could’ve barreled through like a wrecking ball, torn apart brickwork and timber like so much tissue paper. With their hunger raging and prey so close, the temptation was strong, but if they tried, they also commanded a precision of movement that Eddie, even in that altered state, could recognize as magnificent.

It’s hard to get a read on Venom’s size from the inside. They were smaller than Riot, but not by much. If Eddie had to venture a guess, he’d put Venom’s weight at close to half a ton. The sheer force of that much bulk impacting from a thirteen foot drop should’ve demolished those stones, but their muscles shifted as they made a jump, reflexes kicking in and distributing their mass to let them land as lightly and soundlessly as a cat.

The memory is potent enough to send a spike of adrenaline straight through his heart. It’s difficult to put words to that feeling – of ability, of focus and total control, like the synchronized instinct of amazing sex and a runners high rolled into one, only better.

The thought stirs a rustling inside, drawing attention to his symbiote’s presence in his flesh and the indefinable _there-ness_ of another consciousness touching his own. If anyone described something so unnervingly invasive and claimed that he’d take comfort in it, Eddie would have called them crazy, but now, after only a few months, he can’t imagine not having this. Someone who shares in his memories, feeling what he feels without the clumsiness of human words, making it simple: _We are Venom._

A mouse click intrudes. The picture changes and Eddie remembers that they aren’t alone.

“You, um. You must be under a lot of stress after taking down the Life Foundation all by yourself,” Miss Mcalister takes another stab at conversation and it’s only then that he realizes how close his chair is to hers.

“Oh, I… I had help. A lot of help,” Eddie stammers as he tries to subtlety increase the inches between them.

She nods, but it’s distracted, noncommittal. “I had a job offer from them. I was going to work there, without any idea what I’d be taking part in. If you hadn’t exposed them—” She meets his eyes, albeit more cautiously than before.

“This other girl you’re seeing,” she assumes. “Is it… is it serious?”

Not knowing where to look, Eddie glances at the laptop. The backdoor of the house fills the screen.

“As a murder conviction,” he murmurs, peering at the image. There isn’t much to see, not from the outside, but his mind fills in what the camera didn’t capture.

They came prowling up the path on all fours, low and serpentine, evading the motion sensors they could feel humming around them. As Venom, there’s an extra dimension to their eyesight, like infrared, but detailed, defined. Nothing like the splotches of color they always show in movies. With scent and taste enhanced as well, the merc having a smoke in the open doorway was a vibrant circuit of blood and heat and juicy, pulsing organs.

Venom, by contrast, was night solidified; a shadow enveloped in darkness, invisible to anyone not trying to see.

They struck from behind.

Eddie recalls with vivid, visceral clarity how the skull burst between their teeth, their tongue wrapping around the brain and slurping it down, still crackling with the final sparks of activity.

He remembers how the body shook in their grip, limbs twitching with death spasms as they dragged it inside, into the light of the kitchen, and allowed the door to click shut in their wake.

He knows he should be repulsed.

Instead, craving lances him, hot and sharp enough to make his breath catch. His mouth is very wet, his face very warm.

“Um, Eddie? I should maybe warn you. It gets pretty grisly from here.”

He nods, not looking away from the screen. “Yeah, that’s. Fine. We’re fine,” he says, licking his lips, teeth sinking into the swell at the bottom.

Another mouse click and he bites down harder. The screen becomes an abstract study in shades of red, from bright arterial spatter, to the wine-dark of intestinal gore. He can smell it as clearly as if were covered in it, taste the thick metallic richness at the base of his tongue.

He’s suddenly starving. Achingly, ravenously hungry – and not entirely for food. A shiver skitters from his scalp, down his torso and along his limbs, raising gooseflesh, making his nipples peak. He drops his gaze, throat working to hold back a groan. He squeezes his eyes shut, but it doesn’t help. The feeding just continues to play out behind his lids, like… Oh fuck, like a porno he starred in, with muscle memory embedded, stoking his lust.

The crack of a ribcage parting under their claws sounds all too real in his head and he shifts in the chair, trembling from the perverse eroticism of the frenzy.

He doesn’t know why these memories are suddenly turning him on – God, he damn near puked right after! – but…

Sweet Jesus, he’s hard. His balls feel tight, tucked in close and he realizes he’s going to come. He had one of the biggest orgasms of his life only a few hours ago – _oh hell, don’t think about that, Eddie! Don’t think about that!_ – but if his jeans so much as rub him wrong, he’s going to jizz up his briefs like a teenager. Holy shit, even teenage Eddie was never _this_ far out of control.

When he dares a glance to the side, he finds CSI Mcalister staring at him, concerned, as if she’s waiting for a response. Eddie has no idea what she said. His face is on fire; his entire groin throbs.

“Listen, I—” His voice sticks as his eyes skim the scene again. Sense memory thrums and for a split-second, he feels the scrape of bone under his teeth; the give of flesh tearing from a rib; the hot, coppery gush as his tongue curls around a liver…

Wetness floods his mouth and he swallows convulsively, dragging a palm across his lips.

“I—I need. A minute,” he gasps, voice ragged. “Wh—where’s the restroom?”

“Just down the hall,” she says, “to the right.”

She starts to ask if he needs anything, but all Eddie hears is the clattering of his chair hitting the floor as the automated doors whoosh shut behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so I’ve been dropping hints since the prologue, but in case anyone missed it, V is from a species for which the killing and consumption of live prey from the same genus as their chosen hosts is the pinnacle of gratification. In symbrock’s case, that means human predation. Showing them pics of their kills is basically hardcore symbiote porn. Goo son just figured out how orgasms work. Need I say more?


	11. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Eddie is a total slut for V and conversations ensue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please see the end-note for warnings. I'm posting unbeta'ed, so please let me know if you see anything weird.

The restroom “to the right” is marked for ladies with no men’s room in sight, but next to it is a stand-alone handicap stall.

Eddie’s hesitation only lasts a moment.

He yanks the door closed behind him, fumbling with the latch one-handed while fighting the buttons holding his jeans together with the other. Fly undone, he crosses the distance to the toilet and pushes the band of his underwear down. His cock springs free. The head is already poking through the foreskin, glistening wet. He reaches, fingers shaking, but when that hand closes around his shaft, he’s not the one in control. A glove of space-dark heat covers his palm, flowing smoothly around his achingly-hard flesh.

Blood rushes in his head and he slaps his free hand against the squares of sterile white in front of him, watching, wide-eyed, as his other seethes around his groin.

There’s a wrenching sensation, still new enough to make him wince, as a thick wave of blackness erupts from his side, snaking up his shirt toward his face. For a split-second, Eddie expects to see a head taking shape. Half-formed flickers of their kiss blaze through his mind, but as the viscous mass engulfs his jaw, spilling over his mouth, he feels claws and fingers, not fangs and slaver.

He can’t make noise. The symbiote has taken over his movements, holding him immobile, but his eyesight’s just fine. A massive arm, as thick around as his thigh, is barred across his chest, sandwiching him between that and the blanket of rippling warmth mounting against his back.

He moans into the hand covering his lips. This morning – holy shit, was it really only a few hours ago? – he couldn’t see much of what was happening, but now…

Now his symbiote is _making_ him look.

Eddie can feel his other moving under his clothes, working his jeans and underwear down. His hips jerk, caught between surprise and ravenous arousal as streaks of it mold to his ass, digging into his skin, spreading him open. V’s form is liquid-soft as it drips down from his back, coagulating into curious little feelers the further they go. Eddie’s still slightly loose from before, his rim tender with use. A tendril no bigger than his own finger presses inside, just to remind him and he sobs, dick throbbing into the darkness around it.

He’s so close to orgasm, he can feel the tremors in his legs; the coiling tightness at the base of his spine.

The taste of Venom’s kills lingers in his mouth, the color of blood dancing behind his eyes.

He can feel the symbiote’s excitement as well, blurring into his own. And beneath it, is a primal thrum of _hungry_ , compelling and reckless.

 _Such a good host for us, Eddie,_ growled under his skin, like the warning of a wild thing, but the words are a caress _. So perfect. Letting us play. So hungry for us._

The hissing snarl is enough to make that tension snap, to make him come, but his symbiote is holding him back.

Eddie’s eyes roll up, lids fluttering down. _Yes, yes – yours,_ he agrees, shuddering with the bliss of his other’s approval.

_You liked it when we put our tongues in you._

Curious delight rolls through him, like V’s playing a game and figuring out which buttons to push.

 _In your mouth and_ … _here_ , driven home by blunt pressure on his hole.

Eddie’s never been properly dicked before, but even dazed and half-crazy with need, he’s familiar enough with the shape and proportions to know what he’s feeling. His alien has formed a near exact replica of the hard-on nestled in their grip. God, he’s… he’s being teased with the suggestion of getting fucked on his own dick.

_You liked us pushing on this fluid gland_ _._

Eddie’s stomach tightens, legs turning to water as it demonstrates.

 _Like feeling these muscles stretch,_ said as his symbiote’s pseudo-penis exerts a little extra pressure. Not enough to nudge inside, but there’s a dull twinge as the ring of muscle gives, stretching, just enough to make him feel it.

Each tease brings a rush of dark glee, running parallel to the shame-want-yes sending shivers down his spine.

_Want us in you, hmm, Eddie? Make you open, make you full._

Silky darkness throbs around his groin; grinds against his ass. He pants into V’s hand as his hips tilt back, rim twitching against the simulated glans. It’s smooth like a toy, but warm and unmistakably alive. The original it’s molded from is perfectly average, but it’s still a tight fit and they’ll need something slick to ease the way. V could do it for him, slide a tongue up his asshole and loosen him up, get him wet and ready, but…

Eddie remembers where they are, what they’re supposed to be doing.

God, he wants. He wants it so bad, but—

He shakes his head, no. He mumbles into the hand on his face, the syllables stifled beyond sense, but his symbiote can hear his meaning: _Can’t, baby. Not here. No time._

Vicarious frustration shoots through the lust, but his other doesn’t fight him.

Eddie feels something like a lock sliding open at the base of his brain and then, there’s only the sound of his own pulse in his ears and a shaking, trembling sense of release as the pleasure finally crests.

His symbiote contracts and surges around him, but they manage to stay upright this time. He’s not sure where his ejaculate goes, but there’s no sign of it as V dissolves from the hand on his dick to drip and coil around his hips.

Lungs heaving, staring blankly into the white porcelain below him, Eddie remembers the morning’s resolution about not getting off over a toilet.

 _And they say romance is dead_ , he thinks, chuckling breathlessly. At least it’s not their first time and the briefs around his thighs aren’t the grungiest pair he owns.

As the post-orgasmic delirium wanes, Eddie feels the fabric crawl back up over his groin, followed by his jeans. The buttons are tricky and his fly is left open. He watches as tendrils close the lid over the toilet and steer him around to sit.

V pools in his lap, ebbing and flowing over his limbs, oddly cuddly in the aftermath. It’s purring softly again, winding through his fingers.

 _Like this feeling, Eddie. Like falling, or fighting. But no danger,_ it enthuses and Eddie smiles.

“Glad it’s good for you, darling.” He pulls in a breath and holds it; runs a mostly ooze-free palm across his eyes.

“What the fuck just happened? Can’t believe I got that worked up over… over…”

He can’t even bring himself to finish the thought.

On his lap, the symbiote stills. _We told you, we feel each other’s cravings._ _You felt our hunger before. After what we shared in the apartment today, this shouldn’t shock you._

Eddie chews on his lip, processing this revelation. “So,” he begins, “I nearly creamed my jeans in front of that poor CSI on account of _your_ gore fetish, is what you’re saying?”

His symbiote ripples inside him. _Where we were spawned, food can be… difficult to come by._

There’s a wealth of meaning in the pause.

Eddie’s mind is swamped with visions of a place that isn’t anywhere on Earth, a vast, desolate landscape with nothing to separate the jagged rocks on the surface from the cosmos beyond. He feels flickers of emotion as well – a bleak, hollow nostalgia, shot through with fear and anger and something too much like despair.

Accompanying the brief mental tour is a repetitive, humming inflection that sounds a bit like _klyn-tar_ to his ears.

 _Hunting, feeding, seeing the evidence of a kill we made ourselves – we find that deeply satisfying, Eddie. Besides,_ _we had to endure your kinks for weeks while you thought you could hide them. Hungry, every time we passed a woman in a suit, or sat next to a man who’s bigger than you, or that girl with the metal through her tongue, or the guy with the—_

“Yeah, alright, fine! You’ve made your point,” Eddie grumbles, more flustered than mad. He has no grounds to be upset with his symbiote over this, but it’ll take some time to wrap his head around the fact that he’s not only a cannibal by proxy, but a horny one at that.

With the need for sex alleviated, the empty ache in his guts is harder to ignore. It’s not nearly as bad as it was a fortnight ago, but this gnawing goes way beyond a single skipped meal.

“Shit, why _am_ I so hungry? Is this, like, a side effect of the pictures too? Because I sure as heck don’t remember feeling this way after Miranda—”

As he speaks, his symbiote sinks into him completely. It doesn’t respond and Eddie feels something tacit in the silence, words unsaid.

“V? _Are_ you hungry?”

He has to repeat the question before he gets an answer.

 _It’s not like we need to feed right this second. We’re a long way off from eyeing your liver and even if… we wouldn’t._ Chagrin tightens his stomach, not his own. _We’re sorry, Eddie._

The pained apology knocks the breath out of him. “V, baby, come out here. Let me see you.”

There’s a moment’s reluctance and then a dollop of black goo slinks up his middle to hover in front of his face. White slits appear, giving Eddie a focal point for his gaze to settle. He lifts a hand, stroking gently over the cat-sized head.

“You take such good care of me, darling. I told you, remember? It goes both ways. You don’t ever have to hide what you need from me.” He’s aware of the hypocrisy in the words even as he says them. He’s withheld so much from lovers over the years, but as he speaks, Eddie realizes he means it, that he wants to do better.

“I—” a lump forms in his throat and he swallows around it. “I love you.”

V’s response doesn’t come in words.

Instead, a soft, slow frequency trembles through him. The scent of roses coats his tongue as shades of pink and orange and purple take on texture in his mouth.

It’s as cloyingly sentimental as the circumstances aren’t, but Eddie doesn’t care.

“We’ll figure it out, sweetheart,” he promises. “Don’t you worry.”

Not long after, they make their way back to the computer lab, armed with a story of bad takeout for breakfast and Eddie forgetting to take “his meds” before they left. This earns him a lecture on the importance of good nutrition for mental health and a stern reminder that pharmacological instructions aren’t to be ignored.

His mother, nurse that she is, would’ve approved.

Eddie nods dutifully, all too happy to let CSI Mcalister talk, as opposed to asking questions. He can bluff with the best of them, but he’s not confident in his ability to persuasively self-diagnose to a scientist without Google’s help.

They get through the rest of the shots with Eddie side-squinting at the screen and concentrating on the center-yourself-and-breathe-through-it mindfulness crap he’s still trying to get the hang of, but he soldiers through. Detective Donovan’s comment about the house belonging to a Life Foundation subsidiary does provide some insight and he manages an intelligent comment here and there about the victims, if not the assailant, justifying his presence somewhat.

By the time CSI Ling joins them to check on progress, they’re pretty much done and Eddie is more than ready to leave.

Miss Mcalister’s summary of his inputs is a tad more glowing than deserved, but her boss seems reluctantly impressed, so he lets it stand.

They exchanged details at the beginning and Eddie reiterates the obligatory lines about calling “any time” if there’s something he can help with.

CSI Ling looks ready to take him up on it with immediate effect, so Eddie preempts with the excuse of another appointment he’s already late for, and finally makes his escape.

“We should go on a date,” he declares as he’s cooking dinner that night. The food is mostly for himself, though V doesn’t seem to harbor the same scathing disgust for tater tots that it does for every other kind of processed staple.

Eddie supplements the statement with snippets of memory from movies and TV, generic examples that convey the concept without invoking any of his exes, not even Anne. He doesn’t think V would mind if he did, but he doesn’t want his other – and the closest he’s ever come to a boyfriend – to feel like it has to measure up to anyone else.

Their relationship is utterly unique and theirs to define.

“I was thinking, maybe we can go hang out around the harbor. The news says gang activity is up. Maybe we get lucky and someone pulls a gun on us. Then, after dinner, is you want, we can climb the bridge and look at the lights.”

_You hate heights, Eddie._

Eddie feels the fondness and he smiles. “Yeah, well,” he gives a shrug. “You like it up high and I know you’ll catch me if we fall.”

_Always, Eddie._

V is quiet as he plops down on the couch to eat, but Eddie can feel the thread of tension that means it’s being thoughtful.

As he puts his plate aside, digging between the cushions for the remote, there’s a tugging sensation behind his navel and then blackness oozes onto his lap. Eddie puts his hand on it and it instantly wraps itself around him, seeking his touch.

_We like your “date” idea, Eddie. But we have to be careful. More careful than last time, so the police don’t find out. We’re not starving yet, but we do not make good decisions in that state. Hunting should be fun, but you’ve been stressed since we fed. We don’t like that._

Eddie lets out a sigh. “Well, you did a good job of relieving my stress today, babe,” he says, feeling a blush heat his face. “But you’re right,” he agrees, sobering. “We should plan longer term; maybe spread out a little. We can look for high crime areas in other cities. I mentioned the harbor specifically, ‘cause it’s close to the water. We’re a pretty strong swimmer when we, you know, get our Venom on?”

 _Dork,_ his symbiote snipes, unimpressed.

“Takes one to know one, asshole,” Eddie shoots back, but he’s laughing as he says it. “Point is, if we can get them in the water, it makes for easy disposal. If we swim out far enough, the sharks will deal with whatever we don’t finish.”

A pulse of what feels a lot like adoration sings through his blood.

 _Hmm, so clever, Eddie_.

As it speaks, the dark mass slithers up his body to his face. It slides over his mouth and Eddie feels a distinct pressure against his lips. His eyes drift shut as he lets his mouth part, feeling a downscaled version of the symbiote’s tongue slide against his. He kisses back languidly, one arm tucked behind his head, his free hand running over the thick smear across his torso, feeling it curl and twist around his fingers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As mentioned on twitter, this was supposed to be a simple self-abuse chapter, but V took over and Eddie gets owned. Mostly teasing and dirty talk, they're in a police lab ffs, but still. Also, loads of gratuitous fluff for which I refuse to apologize.


End file.
